


The Scent of Honey Upon His Lips

by hogwartswitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Beekeeping, Bees, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explosions, Forests, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hunters & Hunting, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Interspecies snorgling in the mountains, John is an actual sniffer dog, M/M, Mild Gore, Mountains, Murder, Mutual Masturbation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Penetrative Sex, Orgasm, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Romance, Sad violin playing, Sex In A Cave, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's Violin, Simultaneous Orgasm, Snowed In, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Vamplock, Violence, Werewolves, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/pseuds/hogwartswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To new(ish) vampire Sherlock Holmes, the world has become overwhelming. Fleeing his coven and retreating to a cabin in the mountains, he savors the solitary life. However, the day he chooses to save an injured wolf rather than feeding on it introduces him to John Watson, a lone werewolf who wants anything but solitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quietude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> All art, including the page breaks, are done by my lovely and talented fandom wife, [MrsDeGoey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsDeGoey)!

_Cover Art by[MrsDeGoey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsDeGoey/pseuds/MrsDeGoey)  
_

_Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.  
_ \--Song of Solomon, 4:11

There is one perfect moment, in the mountains, where there is a complete absence of sound. The time when the twilight chirping of crickets and soft rush of owl's wings ceases and just before the birdsong ushering in the dawn begins. Soft beams of amber-gold light stretch fingers across the indigo sky and for one crystalline moment, there is silence.

Sherlock savored that moment; the one time of the day when his thoughts quieted and the world ceased to be too much. He held the moment in his hand every morning, eyes lifted to the lightening sky, letting the sunrise warm his skin until, all at once, the world rushed in again and sound returned.

The world had always been a little too much for Sherlock Holmes. A little too sharp, a little too loud. But the night he pursued a shadowy man down an alley in an attempt to solve a murder, his life became so much more complicated. The flash of white teeth and a blur of motion were the only warnings before he felt the sharp stab at his neck, the flow of blood down his skin. The tugging sensation at his neck grew stronger, his vision turning to pinpricks of light until… nothing.

He woke on top of a pile of garbage bags with a sore throat and a gash at his neck that sluggishly oozed blood. Cursing his luck, Sherlock had stumbled back to his flat and collapsed in bed, the fever taking hold as he shivered violently. That was the last normal day he would ever remember having.

The fever held him in its grip for nearly a week, sending him on a roller coaster of chills and sweats while he clung to his sheets. A fire raged in his throat and the blood in his veins felt like molten lava. His heart drummed a staccato beat hard in his chest and Sherlock thought it would surely explode and kill him. At times, he thought that would be a mercy.

When he emerged from his feverish state, Sherlock knew he had changed somehow. His vision somehow sharper, his nose able to pick up the scent of fresh bread baking down the street and the rat’s nest built in the corner of the apartment building’s basement. His ears picked up noises from great distances - the soft scratch his upstairs neighbor writing a list, even the quiet tinkle of a bell from a shop several blocks away. But most telling of all was the thirst, the ever-present thirst that could not be quenched by water or wine. Sherlock spent those first few days curled up in a corner of his flat, the noise of everyday life crashing upon him, his eyes squeezed shut and his throat burning with unslaked desire.

He grew mad from the thirst and stumbled from his flat, eyes wild, brain and heart racing. It was only by luck that he was found by a fellow vampire. Or perhaps luck had nothing to do with it, now that Sherlock had spent time in Victor’s company. Regardless of circumstance, it was a vampire who found Sherlock in his maddened state, his clothes stained with sweat and his veins standing sharp against his paper-white skin.

It was in Victor’s coven that Sherlock learned to hunt, learned to feed. Learned to lurk in dark corners of the night and prey upon the unsuspecting humans foolish enough to venture out-of-doors at such late hours. Sherlock’s eyes were opened to the world of the supernatural that lurked just under the human world, populated with creatures only written about in legends and ghost stories. Victor, who walked the earth for more days than could be imagined, presided over his coven with charismatic appeal. Sherlock was instantly drawn to him and Victor was like a drug coursing through his veins. So many years spent at Victor’s side in blind devotion, so many years spent being the favored one, the one who received praise and desperate kisses laced with the coppery tang of blood. So many human deaths lay upon the head of Sherlock Holmes, weighing him down until he broke under the pressure. Everything became too overwhelming - the noise, the smells, the oppressive guilt of the acts he committed in the name of hunger. As his coven slept off a particularly raucous night of murder and debauchery, Sherlock escaped, slipping from his familiar city and fleeing to the mountains where he found that one perfect moment of silence every morning.

His cabin stood in a clearing high above a small village at the base of the mountains, far from the noise and light of the city. Sherlock had no need to visit the village, preferring to seclude himself away in the wilderness, hunting and feeding on animals as needed, and blocking out the panic-inducing noise of the world. He kept company with books and music, possessing a none-too-small talent at the violin. Sherlock Holmes had no need of companionship, either human or vampire. He set his mind on living out eternity in isolation, away from the temptation that Victor had offered him.

 

 

The noise reached Sherlock’s ears first. A scratching, scrabbling panic and soft whimpers of pain; something in the forest was injured. Sherlock flared his nostrils and scented the sharp tang of blood, causing his mouth to fill with saliva and his throat to contract and throb in anticipation. Closing his eyes, Sherlock stood on the deck of his cabin and listened closely, feeling the vibrations of the forest in his feet. He turns his face to the west and the scent of blood grew stronger. Sherlock crouched, his muscles coiling in preparation, and then his body blurred as he launched himself off the deck and into the forest at an inhuman speed. He darted between tree trunks and over fallen logs, his feet making hardly any noise at all as he glided through the forest. The snuffling cries of an injured animal grew louder until he pulled to a stop near the Western edge of the trees. His pupils dilated as he inhaled the irresistible smell of fresh blood.

The wolf was on the small side with a compact, muscular body. A male, his foot trapped in the vicious jaws of a leg-hold trap, its teeth dug into the skin and drawing blood. He whimpered, pawing at the trap with his free front paw and panting in obvious pain. His yellow-gold coat was slick with moisture and he turned panicked golden eyes at Sherlock, his lips rippling up to reveal sharp teeth. A guttural growl emerged, warning Sherlock away.

Approaching the wolf slowly, Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes darting to the red blood splashed on the ground around the trap. He felt dizzy with longing, having last fed a couple of days ago. He bared his fangs and hissed at the wolf, cowing the animal so that it ducked its head and yelped.

Reaching out a shaking hand to grip the wolf’s ruff, Sherlock made to lower his mouth, the noise of the wolf’s blood rushing through its veins sending shivers up Sherlock’s spine. Beneath his hand, the wolf growled softly, then whimpered once more. Sherlock stopped, closing his mouth and withdrawing to look down at him. The wolf stretched complacently on the ground, his head ducked, staring at Sherlock with sorrowful eyes. A steady whimper wheezed from his throat. Sherlock sat back on his knees, the moisture from the grass covering the ground seeping through his jeans. As he sat back, the wolf thumped his tail once and turned his head, licking Sherlock’s wrist with a warm, raspy tongue.

“You think to inspire pity, wolf?” Sherlock asked softly.

The wolf drew his eyebrows together in a comical expression of confusion, cocking his head as if to understand Sherlock’s words and drawing an unwilling laugh from Sherlock.

“Perhaps you deserve a reprieve.” He murmured, scooting closer to the trap and examining how it worked. “It looks as though you haven’t had the best day as it is.”

The wolf answered with another whimper and thump of his tail. Sherlock leaned closer, his neck exposed to the injured animal as he placed one hand on each side of the trap’s release mechanism. Hot breath blew across his skin as the wolf panted, but made no move to tear at Sherlock’s jugular. Pressing down, Sherlock opened the trap and the wolf immediately pulled back his injured paw and scrambled backwards a few paces.

“These traps should be illegal,” spat Sherlock. He lifted the rusted trap and, with a quick flick of his wrist, twisted the metal around itself until it was thoroughly unusable. He tossed the now mangled trap into the trees and then turned to examine the wolf.

The animal stood at a fair distance, his bloodied paw held slightly off the ground. The wolf gazed at Sherlock warily, but did not run.

“I’ve done all I can for you.” Sherlock said firmly. “Go! Get out of here!”

The wolf limped a few more paces away, then turned to face Sherlock again, his ears twitching.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything. With one last glance at the wolf, he took off at a sprint, heading back to his cabin. He would not feed on fresh blood this morning; instead, he would settle for some of the blood he’d drained from a rabbit a few days ago that he’d kept in his refrigerator.

He felt the wolf behind him before he turned to see it. His neck prickled with the feeling of eyes upon him. Turning around, he found the animal staring at him, head bowed, paw still bleeding freely.

“Just because I freed you doesn’t mean I’m going to help you.” Sherlock sneered. He feinted towards the wolf, baring his teeth and hissing threateningly.

The animal crouched lower in a playful position, his tail wagging and his mouth falling open in a goofy smile. The wolf gave a few yips and lolled his tongue out comically.

Folding his arms over his chest, Sherlock shot a glare at the wolf, then turned and walked up the steps to his cabin. He heard the crunch of pine needles as the wolf came closer. Sherlock stopped, but didn’t turn.

“I don’t need a pet.” He said loudly.

The click of claws on wood answered him as the wolf ascended the stairs and drew up beside Sherlock, leaning his body against Sherlock’s legs. Looking down, Sherlock met the wolf’s pleading gaze as it lifted the injured paw higher and whimpered softly.

Sighing and cursing silently, Sherlock gave in. “Fine. Come.”

Opening the door to his cabin, Sherlock allowed the wolf to limp inside. He collected a dusty first aid kit from the kitchen and sat down on the rug beside the fireplace. The wolf ambled to his side and sat, extending his injured paw forward.

Though there had been plenty of blood, the injury was fairly superficial. The jaws of the trap hadn’t had time to cut too deeply and sever any nerves. Sherlock delicately cleaned the wound with a damp cloth, then disinfected the cuts with alcohol, and wrapped it securely in a gauze bandage. As he finished, the wolf thumped his tail once more and licked Sherlock’s face before he had time to duck out of the way.

“I suppose you won’t leave unless I feed you, eh?” Sherlock mused, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re in luck; I kept the rabbit meat with the blood I drained. I was going to use it as bait to lure a larger animal, but I suppose I can always find another rabbit.”

Retrieving the meat and blood from the refrigerator, Sherlock poured the blood into a mug and padded over to his chair in front of the fireplace. Tossing chunks of rabbit meat to the wolf, who caught them and swallowed them whole, he sipped the mug of blood, enjoying the fizzing of energy that buzzed through his veins as he fed.

The wolf refused to leave Sherlock’s side the entire day; as Sherlock wiled away the afternoon reading a book and recording some thoughts in a journal, the wolf curled up beside his chair and slept. Sherlock found himself reaching down the stroke his hand through the soft, golden fur. Each time he jerked the hand back, cursing his familiarity. As soon as the wolf had rested, he would order it out of his cabin.

But the day passed into evening and Sherlock made no move to usher the wolf outside. As the shadows lengthened and night fell, Sherlock built a small fire in the fireplace and withdrew his violin, pressing his bow to the strings and playing a sad, slow song of his own composing. The wolf lay contentedly at his side, panting softly and tilting his head at the music.

Soon Sherlock felt the ache of exhaustion creep into his bones; he hadn’t slept in several days and knew that his energy ran low. Rising from his chair, he headed towards his bedroom, the wolf instantly up and at his heels.

“Time for you to go.” Sherlock insisted, crossing to the door and holding it open.

The wolf whined and shook his head, his golden ruff of fur splaying out.

“I told you, I don’t need a pet!”

The wolf just stared at Sherlock harder.

“Fine, do what you want.” Sherlock shut the door and glided to his bedroom, which he kept completely dark and still. The only furniture was a massive bed, which he now fell into, burrowing his face in the cool blankets. He felt the thump and give of the mattress as the wolf leapt onto the bed and settled against Sherlock’s back, his fur brushing against exposed skin.

Sherlock, too tired to care, snuggled back against the animal and let himself drift into the nothingness of sleep.

 

 

Sherlock came to consciousness as the birds started to sing outside. He’d slept through his moment, but his bones no longer ached with tiredness. A heavy pressure draped across his chest and Sherlock glanced down to find an arm curled loosely around him, the skin golden brown and lightly furred with fine blonde hair. The hand attached to that arm was bound in gauze bandage flecked with the brown of dried blood. Twisting his head, Sherlock’s eyes widened to see the sleeping face of a man, his blond hair falling over his forehead and his long golden lashes sweeping his cheekbones. A small smile of satisfaction spread over his lips.

The man was completely naked; his chest covered in dense, golden hair, his body sleek and muscular. A rather impressive - even when soft - cock rested in a nest of fur at his crotch. His chest rose steadily in deep sleep. Sherlock, eyes wide in shock and horror, twisted around to face the man, his nostrils flaring as he caught the musky scent of sweat and....dog?

His writhing disturbed the man’s sleep and he stretched his arms above his head, smacking his lips in satisfaction before opening his eyes and meeting Sherlock’s icy blue stare with a warmer, darker shade of blue. The man blinked a few times, taking in his own state of undress as well as Sherlock’s shocked, stony expression. Glancing around him and taking in the room, the man smiled and returned his eyes to Sherlock’s face.

“Hello.” The man said, his smile growing wider. “I’m John Watson. And you are?”


	2. Erstwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson was a soldier until bitten by a werewolf. We pause in the story to examine the road that led him to Sherlock's doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must ask my readers to suspend disbelief a little when it comes to geography and the places I've set this story. I've taken extreme creative license to make up a village that doesn't exist. Consider this story taking place in an alternative version of America and England and forgive me for any errors that might come up as a result.

_Five Years Ago_

The Afghan desert glowed green from behind the night vision goggles on John’s face. He scanned the dunes for movement while concentrating on the bursts of static and faint chatter coming through his earpiece. He held his gun tightly, muscles coiled and ready for when the action started.

A whoosh of noise on his left side caused him to turn, lifting his gun. Seeing nothing, he did a full sweep from left to right, trying to detect any movement. A scrabbling of paws against earth alerted him to an animal nearby and he relaxed slightly. Returning to his vigil, he only had a half-second to glimpse the glowing eyes rushing at him, when his body was hit hard by a large, hairy shape. Rolling along the ground, his gun flying out of his grip, John tried to orient himself. The goggles made it impossible to see what was happening, but his hands connected with fur and, beneath the fur, a strong body that rippled with furious growls and snarls.

A searing pain shot through his left side, causing John to scream and kick out. Whatever was on top of him yelped as his boot connected with ribs. Free from the struggle, John ripped his goggles off, throwing them aside. In front of him, still growing, was an enormous grey wolf, jaws dripping in blood - John’s blood. Every breath seared through John’s lungs and he could feel himself losing too much blood, his vision blurring and his brain growing fuzzy.

“What…” he panted. “The fuck?!”

The wolf’s hackles raised as it prowled around John, avoiding his feet. A steady growl rumbled from its throat and every few seconds it lunged and feinted towards John. Blindly, John groped for the knife strapped to his leg. As he withdrew it, the wolf made its move, launching itself once again at John, hot streams of spittle flying from its gnashing jaws. Yelling wordlessly, John used the last of his strength to drive the knife deep into the wolf’s chest as it collided with his body. The animal gave a high-pitched yelp as John twisted the knife home, hot blood running over his hands, and then the wolf’s eyes dimmed and it slumped on top of John’s body, the weight pinning him to the ground.

Groaning and panting, John pushed until, little by little, he shifted the animal’s dead body off of him. Energy spent, he lay back, clutching his hemorrhaging side. Turning his head to look at the wolf, his eyes widened as he watched the mass of grey fur shimmer and shrink until he was looking at the naked - and very dead - body of a fellow soldier on his team. The familiar face of Lieutenant Atherly Jones was twisted in anger, his eyes open and staring at nothing. The knife protruding from his ribs were covered in sticky, congealing blood.

John concentrated on breathing, the pain in his side growing sharper. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness, he heard the dim cries of his team and the thumping of boots on the ground.

“How long has he been out?”

“Three days, sir.”

“And his injuries?”

“Healing very quickly, actually. He lost a lot of blood, but his vitals are fine.”

“Have you noticed anything...unusual?”

“Sir?”

“No unusual behavior?”

“He hasn’t regained consciousness, so… no.”

“Fine, fine. Very good. May I have a moment alone with him?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

John came slowly into wakefulness, his mind growing aware of the presence of people in his room. He instantly recognized the voice of his commander, Major James Sholto, and assumed the other voice belonged to a doctor. He smelled the sharp scent of cleaner overlaying the smell of various bodily fluids and realized he must be in the hospital. A dull ache in his side reminded him of the nightmare he’d survived. Three days ago? At least according to the voices in his room.

A chair scraped across the floor and John felt Major Sholto ease himself into it by his bedside.

“I know you’re awake.” Major Sholto’s voice rumbled.

Blinking eyes open, John turned to look at his commander. “Can’t put anything past you, can I, sir?

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” John replied carefully. “Almost like I wrestled with a werewolf.”

Sholto winced at John’s words. “I take it you remember everything?”

“The fact that you aren’t telling me I’m crazy means you knew about Jones.”

Sholto nodded, but didn’t reply.

Brain working fast, John drew a few conclusions. “How long has the army been testing?”

“A few years. Jones was in the first group. They… didn’t turn out quite as planned.”

“How so?”

Sholto looked uncomfortable, shifting in his chair.

“Sir, I don’t think you want me going out and looking for answers on my own.” John growled, nostrils flaring. “How did they go wrong?”

Sighing deeply, Major Sholto rubbed a rough hand over his face. “The army thought they’d found a super-serum. Inject a test group, create super soldiers with rapid healing, extreme strength, and the ability to go without sleep for great lengths of time. But...something went wrong. The serum didn’t work. Instead, it created… well, you saw what it created. We didn’t know that Jones had mutated. We thought the serum didn’t work on him. He must have hidden his problem well.”

“So instead of ‘super soldiers’, you got a bunch of violent, insane werewolves?” John snapped. “And what happened to the others?”

“They were… dealt with.”

“Ah, I see.” John pushed himself up a little in his hospital bed, his side aching in protest as he did. “And will you ‘deal’ with me, sir?”

Sholto stared stonily at John, his hands clasped in front of him loosely. “We can’t let this get out, Watson.”

“No, I imagine it wouldn’t look very good, would it?”

“No.”

“Is the army still testing?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Ah, but they’re looking, aren’t they?”

Sholto didn’t reply.

Thinking quickly, John weighed his options.

“Listen to me, and listen well.” John said, his voice steely. “I will get out of this bed right now, whether I am injured or not, and I will tell every single person I can find about what happened to me. I’ll splash it all over the papers and I’ll bring you all down.”

Sholto blanched, his face growing pale.

“Or.” John lifted a finger to illustrated his point. “I get an honorable discharge from the army and I’m allowed to go away. _Far_ away. And I don’t say anything to anyone.”

“You realize I could just shoot you in the head and be done with things?”

“I do. I also know that would create a lot of mess and a lot of questions.”

“So we appear to be at an impasse.”

“We are. But I know you’re not a stupid man, sir. I think you know what option works best for you and the army.”

“Aren’t you concerned about… side effects?”

“Even if I am, I’m not going to become some army guinea pig.”

“Where will you go?”

“Home. London. For now. Then… I don’t know. No concern of yours.”

Sholto nodded, his face growing sorrowful. “I’m sorry, Captain Watson. You’re a good soldier, one of the best. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re right, it shouldn’t have. But it did. Are we good?”

“I’ll start arranging your discharge papers in the morning.”

London was like an old familiar glove that he’d outgrown. It fit too tightly now, squeezing the life out of him. John returned to his city and found he no longer belonged there. His injuries healed, but the nightmares filled with glowing eyes and snapping teeth didn’t fade. He jumped at loud noises and lost big chunks of time where he would just stare into space, all thoughts fleeing his mind.

It was a month after his discharge that he felt the change inside. He woke one night in a sweat, his skin blazing with fever. His muscles rippled and his bones ached. He gritted his teeth as wave after wave of pain hit him. His senses sharpened and then he was viewing his room from a different vantage point. Lower to the ground, he saw everything in sharp detail, even in the dark. His nostrils flared and he smelled the curry shop on the corner and down the street. His ears picked up the scurrying claws of mice in the walls of his flat. Huffing out a breath, he looked down and saw large paws covered in golden fur where his hands should have been. Padding across the floor, his claws clicking, he approached the mirror in his bedroom. Staring out of the mirror was a golden-haired wolf with amber eyes. Ducking his head, the wolf in the mirror mimicked him. That first night, John paced the floor of his flat, unsure of what to do. In the morning, as his thoughts calmed, he was finally able to transform back into his human form, his naked body crouching on the floor.

He found he could control when he transformed, if he concentrated. Several months were spent learning how to control the wolf inside of him. The only time he lost grip of that control was when he was angry or upset. He felt the tenuous thread of animalistic rage inside of him, always ready to snap. But John was determined to keep that thread unbroken and under control.

He would sometimes allow himself to roam London in wolf form. Only at night, and keeping to the shadows. When he was a wolf, he longed to run flat-out, feeling the air in his fur. But it wasn’t safe in the city. This was why London no longer fit him, but left him feeling cramped and caged.

With his nerves shot, he also found work unacceptable. He was no longer fit to be around fellow human beings; his emotions frayed at the edges and quite often got the best of him. His social skills suffered and John became isolated, a feeling he didn’t enjoy.

It was a cloudy morning in London when John, a shadow of his former self, was recognized by an old friend.

“John? John Watson?” The voice called to him as he strolled purposely through the park.

Turning, John found the familiar, friendly face of his old friend, Mike Stamford.

“Mike!” John smiled. “What a small world!”

“I heard you were off playing army men?”

“Honorable discharge.” John pulled a face. “I was injured, didn’t think I could continue with the army.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, mate.”

“No worries. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, traveling a fair bit. Picking up work as I can find it.”

“Mike Stamford, world traveler? Who would have guessed?”

“Right?” Mike chuckled. “Hey, how about a coffee and a catch-up?”

John agreed and they strolled to a nearby coffee shop. Seated inside, they both nursed cups of coffee and exchanged small talk.

Eyeing him shrewdly, Mike leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So. How’d it happen?”

Taken aback, John stared at his friend. “Excuse me?”

“C’mon, don’t tell me you didn’t smell me out? I could smell you from practically a mile away.”

Bewildered, John gave a little sniff and realized that Mike was right. He’d assumed the wolf scent was his own, but now discovered that the scent of _two_ wolves flooded his nostrils.

“You?” He asked, flabbergasted.

“I told you I traveled a lot.” Mike’s face was grim. “I ran into a pack in Bulgaria. Barely made it out.”

“I… don’t understand. I thought this was an army thing?”

“I don’t know what werewolves have to do with the army, John, but there are packs of natural-born weres all over the world and some of them are quite violent. Some of them like to turn others into their kind. This pack wanted me to join them after I… changed. But I refused and fled. I try to keep a low profile now.”

Overwhelmed with the new information, John sat back, speechless.

“Sorry if this is too much to take in.” Mike said. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was you who belonged to that scent.”

“Small world, indeed.” John whispered. He flicked his gaze up to Mike’s eyes. “You feel trapped in the city?”

“Nah, I’ve grown fond of the creature comforts of London. I don’t transform very much, to tell you the truth. I know some wolves have rage issues, but you know me, always been kind of easygoing.”

“Yeah...yeah.” John nodded. “I control it pretty well, too. But it just feels… way too small here.”

“London is small?!”

“Well, not literally. But I just feel… trapped.”

Mike nodded. “I know some other wolves who’ve felt the same way. You know there are other packs out there. They usually live in more wilderness-heavy places. You could join one of them?”

“I thought you said they were violent.”

“I said _some_ of them were violent. There are others that aren’t quite as bad. Sure, a little wild, but they don’t go seeking out humans to turn. A buddy of mine told me about one in West Virginia that isn’t too bad.”

“West Virginia? _America_?!”

“Easier to hide there. Wolves kind of stand out in England, yeah?”

John lapsed into silence, his face thoughtful. Mike patted his pockets, finally withdrawing a slim card.

“Look. Here’s the number of a contact who can put you in touch with the pack leader. I don’t know what you want to do with your life, John, but if you feel like London is chafing, there are options.”

John took the card with a name and number scrawled across it. “Thanks, mate. Really. I appreciate it.”

Their visit finished, John and Mike parted company. That night, alone in his flat, John stared at the card, his mobile next to him.

“West Virginia.” He murmured, fingering the card.

“Um, hello? I was given this number by Mike Stamford. He said you might be able to put me in touch with….”

“You looking for the pack?”

“Er. I suppose I am?”

“I can put you in touch with the leader, but it has to be done in person. Charles doesn’t use the telephone.”

“Oh. Well, I live in London, so it might take me awhile to get there….”

“Do you have a pen? Let me give you directions.”

Wolf Hollow, named because of the large number of sightings of wolves in the area spanning back decades, was a village nestled at the foot of a Spruce Mountain. It was in the small town that John met Philip Anderson, the librarian at the minuscule public library in Wolf Hollow. Philip, whose shaggy hair kept dropping into his eyes, showed him maps of the forests and mountains nearby, telling him how to get to the pack. A meeting had been arranged with Charles Magnussen, leader of the Sundown Creek pack, and his second in command, James Moriarty.

John marveled to himself how his life had changed as he met with the two men, their scents marking them as fellow wolves. Both Magnussen and Moriarty were natural-born wolves and carried themselves with a great deal of pride over that fact. John somehow managed to charm them, though, and he was soon offered a place in the pack. At first he was low man on the totem pole, but he soon worked himself up in rank until he stood at Magnussen’s other side opposite Moriarty. He also garnered the attention of Charles’s daughter, Mary.

With Mary’s attention came trouble. Moriarty lusted after Mary himself and, when she showed a preference for John, a deep split came between the three of them. John found himself at the center of an unwanted love triangle and in danger of losing the family he’d worked so hard to be accepted into.

Complicating matters was Charles’s happiness at Mary’s affection for John. Charles gave his blessing to them both and John found himself in an arranged marriage he’d not asked for. Determined to keep his place in the pack, John set aside his true nature and tried to find happiness with Mary. He was fond her, after all, as she had a sweet, loving nature that was hard to dislike. Pregnancy soon followed the marriage and John adjusted to the idea of becoming a father.

All of that ended the night Moriarty confronted them both, half-demented and raging against them. A scuffle broke out between John and Moriarty, transforming into wolves and snapping viciously at each other. Not thinking, Mary threw herself in between the two of them. Her screams are what stopped the fighting, but by then it was too late. Mortally wounded in the fight, her body lay sprawled on the ground, her lifeblood draining away.

With that one night, John lost his wife, his child, and all hope of a family and a happy life. He stood in front of a grieving Charles Magnussen, side by side with Moriarty, and accepted his banishment with stony silence.

John didn’t know where Moriarty went after being shunned from the pack, but he chose to return to Wolf Hollow, to seek out the help of Philip Anderson once more.

Wolf Hollow wasn’t a bad place to live. Just a lonely one for John, who felt obligated to keep to himself. He settled in as an assistant to the local butcher who ran a meat market in the village. Mr. Hudson and his wife were kindhearted and childless, so they treated John like a son. John found butchering to be a good fit and a solitary job that kept him away from people most of the time. Though he was lonely, he wasn’t wholly unhappy. After a couple of years as assistant, Mr. Hudson proudly handed over the reins and retired, taking his wife and leaving Wolf Hollow for one of the bigger cities with more conveniences for a man of his age.

Now John ran the meat market alone, preferring to keep to himself. But he still found himself wishing for companionship at times. A wolf is not meant to be alone and John felt that ache deep in his heart. He often transformed into his wolf form and ran the forests, abandoning all human thought and losing himself in the joy of being close to nature.

It was on one of those outings that he took a wrong step, the steel teeth of the leghold trap biting into his flesh before he had time to swerve out of the way. Pain flooded his senses and he pawed at the trap, whining and whimpering, unable to transform back into human form due to the stress of pain.

 _Help!_ His panicked mind cried out. _Someone… please… help!_


	3. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reacts to finding a naked man in his bed.

_I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumble-bee._  
\--Henry David Thoreau

Sherlock scooted back, away from the man - away from John Watson - the corner of the bedside table digging into his skin.

John propped himself up on one elbow, still smiling. "Thanks, by the way. I was panicking in that trap, couldn't transform. I'm not sure I would have gotten out without your help."

Mouth gaping, Sherlock blinked at the stranger in his bed, his brain racing to find a proper response.

"You're from England, too? I noticed your accent... wanted to stick around and introduce myself. It's not often I hear a voice that makes me homesick."

"You..you're... you're a...." Sherlock was babbling, unused to feeling surprised.

"A werewolf." John said simply. "Yep. I figured you knew? I smelled _you_ when I started running this forest. I tried to steer clear, give you space. Thanks for not feeding on me, too. I thought I was done for at first."

"G-get out." Sherlock stammered, finally grabbing hold of his emotions.

Confusion clouded John's face. "I'm sorry?"

"Get out." Sherlock said more firmly. "Get out of my house. Get out of my forest."

Eyes narrowing and muscles tensing, John sat up. "Now, wait a minute...."

"No. No waiting. Get out. I told you last night, I don't need a pet. I most certainly don't need a friend." Sherlock spat the last word out as though it was a mouthful of poison.

John scrambled out of bed and stood before Sherlock, seemingly unconcerned that he was stark naked. Sherlock's nostrils flared as the movement stirred John's scent up, filling his nose with the musky odor. His throat contracted and he felt the familiar stirring of bloodlust in his stomach. John, arms akimbo, glared darkly at Sherlock. He blinked and when he opened his eyes, they had turned the amber gold of the wolf's eyes from the night before.

"I'll leave." John said quietly. "I don't have any problem with that. But there's plenty of room in this forest for the both of us. Don't you dare try to chase me off from my _home_."

Bloodlust dying as quickly as it started, John's anger sending a frisson of fear down his back, Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Fine. Just stay out of my way."

"Don't you get tired being alone out here?" John tried one more time to reach out to Sherlock. "You let me stay here last night - surely a man who doesn't want friends doesn't do that?"

"A moment of weakness that won't be repeated." Sherlock snapped. "Please... just go."

Growling in frustration, John gave up. "Okay. Could you just... turn around or something?"

At Sherlock's look of confusion, John indicated himself and his state of undress. "I kind of need to transform to leave? A naked man walking out of the forest is pretty much guaranteed to set lips flapping in the Hollow."

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, then turned away, his back now facing John Watson. A swish of air and claws clicking on the hardwood floor were the only indication of a change. The claws great quieter as John left the room. A few moments later there was a scrabbling as John pawed at the door to the cabin and then the familiar silence descended on the cabin.

Hair disheveled, thoughts jumbled, Sherlock took some time to collect himself. He had, of course, encountered werewolves before. In London, he'd run afoul of many creatures he hadn't known existed. Even then, he hadn't expected to find another creature similar to himself figuratively in his backyard. He would have to be careful; Sherlock could not risk letting his guard down. The last time he'd done that was with his coven and that had ended rather badly. His relationship with the leader turned abusive and frightening, a catalyst for his leaving. To allow another person to share his space would let in the part of the world he worked so desperately to shut out. He'd been running for so long and had traveled far from the only city he'd known to distance himself from those who knew him. Sherlock was determined he would not ruin that here. He would not ruin his moment in the mountains.

Rising from his bed, Sherlock padded to the bathroom to take a shower and wash the smell of dog off of his skin. Afterwards, clad in fresh jeans, a soft grey Henley sweater, and battered work boots, Sherlock went to the backyard to check his bees.

They'd been an impulsive decision, the first season after he'd moved to the mountains. He grew bored, craved distraction. The hive had been simple to assemble and the supplies hadn't been expensive. Honey and wine mixed together could be an acceptable substitute when Sherlock failed at his hunt. Though the mixture didn't energize him as much as blood did, it sustained him when he had no other options. Besides, he liked the bees. The soft thrumming of wings as they worked to provide for their Queen soothed Sherlock's frenzied thoughts. His presence seemed to calm them, as well, so that Sherlock could work with them without a bee suit, or even a smoker. Now, he opened the lid to his top-bar hive and eased a post out to check the progress of the honeycomb. He'd added two new posts over the weekend as the hive had expanded enough to demand it. The bees worked endlessly, filling each pocket with honey, new bees flying in carrying pouches of pollen on their back legs. Sherlock felt a slight cooling in the air, an indication that the late summer was fading into fall. He made a mental note to finish the last of his honey harvesting soon, and begin the preparations to insulate the hive for winter.

After he'd finished checking his hives, Sherlock felt at a loss of what to do. John's appearance - and disappearance - from his life had left him feeling discombobulated and uneasy. Deciding to go for a run, perhaps track some fresh prey for dinner, Sherlock walked through his cabin and out the front door, starting to sprint as he came to the edge of his deck.

John's fur rippled in the breeze and he pounded through the forest, attempting to run off some of the anger he felt over Sherlock's reaction.

_Who does that?_ He thought. _Who isolates himself like that?_

John craved companionship; he craved the feeling of belonging. He'd found that with his fellow soldiers and, later, with his pack. Though he'd grown to love living in Wolf Hollow, the isolation he felt gnawed at him and left him feeling jittery. After his fear of coming face to face with a vampire had faded, he'd been thrilled at the prospect of having someone like himself to confide in.

Slowing to a walk, John took a moment to feel sorry for himself. Somewhere behind him, he heard the distant sound of a cabin door opening and Sherlock's distinctive scent of coppery blood became stronger. John knew he should leave the forest until the vampire finished hunting, but instead an idea came to him and he resumed his lope through the trees, nose scenting the air for his prize.

The hunt did not produce results. Sherlock scowled as he lurked around a clearing of trees and sniffed the air. The animals in the area could have been scared off by yesterday's goings-on, he reasoned. Which meant he would have to resort to honey and wine tonight, as the rabbit he'd shared with John Watson the evening before had been his last.

Sherlock stiffened as a twig snapped behind him and his nostrils filled with the half-canine, half -human scent of John Watson. Turning quickly, his face twisted in anger, Sherlock readied sharp words.

The golden wolf approached cautiously, a rabbit clamped in his mouth. He hesitated as he saw the look on Sherlock's face, but then continued. He lay the dead body of the rabbit on the ground, nudging it towards Sherlock with his nose.

"I don't need your help to hunt." Griped Sherlock, even though his throat now throbbed painfully as he smelled the fresh blood of the rabbit.

If a wolf could roll his eyes, John would have done just that. He lowered his head and gave a soft yip, nudging the rabbit even closer to Sherlock. Jaw set stubbornly, Sherlock refused to budge. John huffed once, then turned and loped back into the deeper part of the forest, leaving the rabbit behind.

Sherlock waited a few moments for the sounds of the wolf's departure to fade, then he was on the rabbit, his fangs tearing through fur and flesh, still-warm blood pouring into his mouth and slaking his parched throat. Draining the animal quickly, Sherlock closed his eyes and moaned as a surge of energy filled his body. Withdrawing a knife he kept at his waist, Sherlock then skinned and cleaned the rabbit with ease, his hands performing the familiar task without thought. From his pocket he pulled a plastic bag that he placed the rabbit meat into for later. He then buried the entrails and fur. He cleaned the blood off his hands with a couple of handfuls of grass, then turned to head back to the cabin. He would leave the hunting for another day, when the forest was more alive with movement. As he was about to take off in a sprint his eyes caught a gleam of metal in the weeds near the edge of the clearing. Parting the weeds, he discovered another leg-hold trap identical to the one that John Watson had stumbled into. Anger flooding his mind, Sherlock cast about for something to disarm the trap. Finding a fallen branch, he triggered the trap with a powerful snap that cut the branch in two, he then twisted the metal and discarded it.

_Whoever's leaving these will have me to contend with._ Sherlock thought, as he jogged towards home.

Later that night, having spent most of the day reading, Sherlock opened the windows of his cabin to let the late summer breeze in. The crickets and frogs filled the air with their night song and Sherlock joined them with his violin. His bow danced over strings as he played a lilting happy song. Somewhere in the distance, a high-pitched ululation picked up, rising and falling along with Sherlock's song.

_John._ The name entered his mind without his permission. Pausing in his music, Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his inner vision of the golden-haired, smiling man who'd been in his bed just that morning. As soon as he resumed playing, the howls picked up again, blending perfectly with the music.

Not able to help himself, Sherlock felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He slowed his playing to pick up the first notes of _On Raglan Road_ \- a particular favorite of his. The howl of the wolf kept pace, accenting the song with its mournful cries.

Sherlock played the sad tale of a man who knew he would be hurt by love, but took the risk anyway, and John, somewhere in the forest, sang along until the last notes faded into the night, leaving only the crickets and frogs once more.

"Good night, John Watson." Sherlock whispered into the night air, before closing his windows with a click and returning to his chair to pass the dark hours with his book.


	4. Vacillation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with the concept of friendship.

  
_How we need another soul to cling to._  
\- Sylvia Plath, _The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_  


Over the course of the next four weeks, John continued his efforts to break through Sherlock's hard shell. Every few days he left the body of an animal on Sherlock's steps. Though he wasn't sure if the offerings were appreciated, he noted they always disappeared quickly and any glimpse of Sherlock told him the vampire was feeding regularly. At night, he prowled the forest and listened for the soft strains of violin music, joining his voice with the longing notes. When Sherlock was in the woods at the same time as John, he could feel it - the hush of creatures falling still as soon as an unknown predator entered their domain. Though he knew he could - and probably should - just drop the idea of friendship with a vampire, something about the way Sherlock had looked at him while he was in wolf form made him unable to stop his attempts at friendship. Content to move slowly, John kept his distance, but stayed constantly aware of Sherlock's whereabouts.

Now, though, his duties in Wolf Hollow prevailed. John stood at his table in the back of his store, breaking apart a cow carcass and wrapping and labeling the cuts. A large order from one of his regular customers had him staying late to make sure the order could be fulfilled. As he cut the last of the meat from the carcass, intending to grind it, the bell on the front door dinged. Stripping off his bloodied gloves, John walked to the front counter and smiled warmly at the stranger who had walked in.

"Can I help you?"

The man was of medium height and weight. His shaggy white-blonde hair brushed the collar of a worn flannel shirt. Thick-framed glasses perched on a reddened nose that spoke of too many nights of too much drinking. When he opened his mouth, John could see crooked, stained teeth inside.

"I'd like several lamp chops and several rib-eye steaks. Do you have any on hand?"

"I think I might be able to accommodate." John walked around the counter and peered into one of his coolers. "Yes, right here. How many would you like?"

The man helped John pick out several packages of meat and they returned to the counter while John rang up the purchases.

"Haven't seen you here before," John mused. "Are you new to the area?"

The man cleared his throat. "I am, indeed. Moved into a little place up in the mountains. Wanted to get away from it all for a spell."

"I know the feeling." John bagged up the man's purchases and handed them to him. "Welcome to Wolf Hollow, Mr.... ?"

"Hope." The man nodded in thanks. "Name's Jeff Hope."

John bid good bye to the man and returned to his tasks in the back. A couple more hours of work and he could close up. Though the weather grew cooler with fall approaching, the days still stayed light into the evening. John thought he might enjoy a run through the forest, followed by a splash in the nearby pond to catch a fish for his dinner. Though he sometimes resented his wolf side, John felt grateful for the love and appreciation of nature that had come with it. He never felt truly alive until he had dirt beneath his paws and wind running through his fur. Humming softly and thinking about the night ahead, John smiled and set to work finishing butchering the cow.

Sherlock rested his hand on the lid of his hive, letting the hum of the bees travel up his arm and fill his chest with a warm buzz. His swarm seemed content and Sherlock could smell the honey in the hive. He would begin his last harvest tomorrow - a small harvest, so that enough honey remained to carry the swarm through winter. Reassured that there were no problems, Sherlock didn't disturb the hive's productivity. He rolled his shoulders and neck, feeling his muscles coiled tensely beneath his skin. He'd grown restless over the last few days and nothing seemed to alleviate that feeling. He'd even gone hunting, though _someone_ had made sure he was well supplied in freshly killed animals. For the first time since he left London, Sherlock felt well-fed. Though he wasn't bad at hunting, he didn't particularly enjoy it. He was more likely to go without or rely on honey and wine than he was to hunt regularly. Hunting was reserved for when he simply could not go any longer without the strength that came with fresh blood.

John Watson, however, was apparently colossally stubborn and did not understand the meaning of the word "no". Though loathe to encourage him, Sherlock found it impossible to resist the fresh kills left on his deck; wasting the offering was out of the question. Which is how Sherlock found himself well-fed and energized for the first time in his life as a vampire. The downside to this was he also felt restless and bored.

Deciding a run would exhaust some pent-up frustration, Sherlock walked through the house and out of the front door, breaking into a run as soon as his feet left the deck. The early autumn sun warmed his pale skin and he closed his eyes in pleasure as the slight breeze ruffled his curls. Using tree trunks as leverage, he leapt and ran through the forest, the colors blurring as he sped up.

Breaking through the trees, he pulled up at the edge of the small pond not too far from his property. Not pausing, Sherlock shucked off his clothes at the water's shore, his pale body glowing like moonlight under the sun. He dove, his lithe body sliding noiselessly into the sun-warmed water. He darted across the pond and dove deep, fingers skimming the bottom and stirring up silt and gravel. Finally, popping his head to the surface and treading the water, Sherlock's nose filled with a familiar canine scent. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You're ruining my swim with your stench." He called in the general direction of the trees.

John - in his wolf form - stepped out from behind one of them and sat near the edge of the water, tongue lolling.

"That wasn't an invitation to join me." Sherlock scowled. He blinked, and when his eyes found John again, the man was crouched at the edge of the water, his skin even more golden in the late afternoon sunshine.

John grinned. "Well, I figured since my cover was blown...."

He rose and, in one swift movement, splashed noisily into the pond and swam towards Sherlock, who was trying to get the image of the full length of John's body out of his mind.

"Have you been getting the things I've left for you?" John was a few feet away from Sherlock, treading water.

"I have." Sherlock said stiffly. "They weren't necessary."

John smoothed back his wet mop of hair with his hands. "I know. But I didn't mind."

"You're very...." Sherlock trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Friendly? Kind? Obliging? Amiable?" John grinned, splashing a little water in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Persistent."

"Ah. Yes. I've been told that before." John replied ruefully.

"You should probably concentrate your efforts elsewhere." Sherlock warned. "I'm rather a lost cause."

"Yeah... probably. But I've got a thing for lost causes, considering I'm a bit of one myself." John's eyes crinkled, the lines speaking of many days smiling in the sunshine.

Sherlock frowned, not sure how to handle this perpetual cheeriness. "Er... I should go."

"I didn't mean to scare you off." John said, the smile fading. "You don't have to go, really!"

"No, it's... okay. I was done, anyway." Sherlock swam towards the pond's edge. "Um... could you... turn away?"

"Right, right." John turned his back as Sherlock stood and shook the excess water off his body, but kept sneaking glances over his shoulder, giving his tall, slim form a once-over. "Anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like a Greek God?"

Though it should have been physically impossible for a vampire to blush, Sherlock's face took on a definitely pink hue as he jumped in surprise. "I asked you not to look!"

"Sorry!" John said, his apology mingled with youthful giggles. "I couldn't help myself!"

Scrambling to pull on his clothes, Sherlock glared. "Look, I know you can tell where I am in the forest. Next time, just steer clear, please?"

Sobering, John continued to tread water for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. "Okay." He finally said softly. "I get it. I'll stay away."

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice was strained. He stood at the pond's edge and watched John's back in the water. Finally, he turned to leave. "Good bye, John."

In the space of a breath, Sherlock was gone. The only evidence he'd ever been there the slight shivering of the leaves on the trees. John breathed a sigh of disappointment and pondered what he could try next to break through Sherlock's cold demeanor. He also thought of the pale curves of Sherlock's muscles, his strong calves and thighs, the dark patch of hair at his groin. John felt a stirring of lust in his belly and he hummed deep in his throat. He knew he was hopelessly lost at that point, and he knew he was a bit crazy.

"A vampire and a werewolf?" He whispered to himself. "In what world does that work?"

Mind cluttered with thoughts of Sherlock, John dove under the water to try to catch a fish for his dinner.

That evening as the moon rode low in the sky, Sherlock played his violin, the sweet strains of music floating through the forest. But John's howls did not join him this time. The night stayed silent, but for the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.

Sherlock put his violin away that night with a heavy heart, unable to explain the feeling of unease and regret that flooded his chest. Nor could he explain why his dreams that night featured a golden-skinned man lying next to him, hands roaming over his body, lips trailing kisses down his neck.


	5. Snowfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter arrives in the mountain and, with it, an early snow storm.

  
_"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again."_  
\- Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass_  


Life returned to normal. Dull, mundane normality. Sherlock, now left to himself, spent the days caring for his bees, going on hunts when the thirst grew too strong to ignore, and playing his violin or reading in the evenings. Occasionally he caught a whiff of wolf while he was out on a hunt, but did not cross paths with John Watson all through the autumn season. He tried to tell himself that was what he'd wanted, but in the back of his mind a small kernel of loneliness planted itself and wouldn't leave him.

The forecast predicting the first snowfall of the season came early in the form of a harsh winter storm, expected to dump a large amount of snow in the mountains. Sherlock rushed to wrap his hives in tar paper and secure mouseguards over the entrance. He weighted each lid down with a heavy rock and made sure to treat the hives for mite infestation. His honey and wine stores were plentiful, so if he was unable to hunt for a while due to the snow, he would be able to make it through until the thaw. Just in case, though, he went out to hunt before the storm hit, taking down a deer that would last him several feedings if he was careful.

The first, fat flakes of snow started falling in the evening, softly drifting from the sky and landing upon the ground. They accumulated quickly after that. Sherlock watched the blanket of white creep up his deck, insulating sound and bringing a hush to the mountains that he normally only experienced in his moment. Sighing happily, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the peace that came with the snow. Though he felt the cold as it crept into his bones, he didn't mind sacrificing warmth for the stillness that winter brought with it.

By morning the snow drifts nearly reached the cabin's roof and Sherlock knew he would be confined indoors for quite some time, unless he wanted to dig his way out. Content to remain indoors, he concentrated on giving his cabin a thorough cleaning and reorganizing his books. When he finished that, he spent time composing a new song. He pushed the niggling feeling of boredom back as it threatened to rear its head. Outside, the snow continued to fall in short flurries, adding to the already impressive piles.

It was halfway through the third day of being snowbound that Sherlock heard the noise - a scratching, thumping noise from somewhere in the snow. It grew steadily closer until someone was bumping against Sherlock's door, scratching at the wood. He smelled the familiar canine scent before he heard the sound of John's whine coming from outside. Cursing, he rose and crossed the floor to fling open the door, revealing a tunnel through the snow and John in wolf form sitting outside. His fur was wet from snow and his body shook with shivers as he tried to warm himself.

"Oh for the love of... get in! In!" Sherlock snapped, widening the door.

With a scrabbling of claws on wood floor, John darted inside and shook himself, scattering water droplets everywhere.

"Stop!" Protested Sherlock, his arms raised in a failed attempt to keep himself from getting drenched. "Do you have to behave like a complete animal?"

John's tongue lolled out and he thumped his tail a few times on the floor. The air shimmered almost imperceptibly and Sherlock was now looking at a naked human crouched on his floor. Swearing loudly, Sherlock stomped into his bedroom and fished a spare robe from his wardrobe, which he then tossed at John.

"Not everyone is comfortable with you parading around in the nude." He said, stiffly.

John laughed. "Thanks. Any chance you have a towel? My hair's soaked!"

"Among other things." Sherlock said wryly, looking down at his water-splattered shirt.

"Oops." John said, ducking his head in embarrassment. "Sorry 'bout that. The snow was deeper than I expected."

Sherlock's voice was muffled as he rummaged in his bathroom cupboards before emerging with a couple of fluffy towels, one of which he threw to John. "What were you doing out there, anyway? Can't you see that the mountain's completely socked in?"

"Checking on you, of course." John grabbed the towel from mid-air and scrubbed his hair roughly. "I left you alone, but this snow had me worried. I wanted to see if you were okay for food and make sure the snow hadn't caused any sort of disaster up here."

"You're here... just because of me?" Sherlock regarded John with an odd light in his eyes. "Why?"

John shrugged. "Maybe I just want to be friends."

"I thought I told you I don't need friends."

"Well, sure, that's what you say... but who doesn't benefit from at least one friend. Don't you get lonely?"

The kernel in the back of his mind bloomed into a flower as Sherlock tried to keep his voice calm. "No, never. I prefer to be alone."

John cinched the robe, his hair now dry and sticking out in all directions. Glancing up at Sherlock's face, he smiled softly. "What if I don't believe you?"

Unsure of how to answer, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well. You're here now. You can stay long enough to get warm and dry, but then I insist you go."

"Hate to break it to you, but that's not happening."

"Excuse me?"

John nodded at the window. Sherlock turned and saw snow falling in thick flakes, the wind picking up slightly and blowing them to the side. "It was hard enough getting here. No way can I survive a trip down the mountain with more of that falling."

"So you're...."

"Stuck here, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I can take my wolf form and sleep out here. And I can help you out with anything that needs to be done around the house."

"I...don't have any food for you, though. Well, I have a little, but it won't last long."

"That is a worry." John said, scrubbing a hand over his face, which was covered in mid-day stubble. "But we'll have to take it as it comes. If the snowfall will stop adding to the drifts out there, I can try hunting small animals. Don't worry, I've survived worse in the military."

"You were a soldier." Sherlock said, glancing at John up and down with a new perspective.

"Yep. A fairly successful one, 'til I got turned. Hey, any chance I could build a fire? I think I got chilled from all the snow."

Banishing thoughts of John in a military uniform, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, of course... there's wood on the back porch under a canopy, so you should still be able to get to it."

His backyard had gotten the least amount of snow pile-up, thanks to Sherlock's preparation. He went out daily to shovel any build-up away from his hives and make sure they didn't sustain any damage. Showing John to the woodpile, he helped him collect a few logs and returned to the living room. John deftly built the fire and soon had a flame burning brightly. John sat in front of the fire cross-legged, soaking up the warmth, while Sherlock sat in his comfortable chair and enjoyed the feeling of the cold leaving his bones. He rarely remembered to build a fire, even when one would be appreciated. He felt a small twinge of gratitude towards John for suggesting it.

"So. What do we do for fun around here?" John broke the silence.

"I read. Play the violin. Occasionally I compose or write down my thoughts." Sherlock ticked off each on his fingers. "When I grow too tired, I sleep. Sometimes I simply enjoy the quiet."

John pulled a face. "That's it? You don't have a TV or DVD player? No games?"

"No, I prefer to entertain myself."

"This might be a long winter." John said mournfully, looking sadly out the window at the falling flakes.

"There are some boxes that were left behind when I bought this cabin." Sherlock said, waving his hands towards the hall closet where he stored anything he didn't use. "You're welcome to go through them and see what you find."

John eagerly bounded to the closet, pulling at the cord hanging from the bare bulb that was suspended from the ceiling.

"They're marked 'unsorted'." Sherlock called to him.

For the next twenty minutes, the cabin was filled with the sound of boxes being opened and things being rummaged through. Occasionally John would exclaim "All right!" or "Yes!", which made Sherlock roll his eyes. Soon John emerged with a small armload of things.

"There's a box of board games in there! I left it there, but I also found cards and dominoes...and chess! And I found this book on how to knit stuck with some yarn balls and needles. There's a box of comic books in there, too!" John looked like a little boy on Christmas morning, barely able to contain his excitement. "So c'mon... what do you want to play? Poker? Gin Rummy? Go Fish?"

"Play?" Sherlock looked aghast.

John's face fell. "Don't make me play solitaire... please?"

Sighing, Sherlock gave in. "Fine. I don't know how to play anything, so you'll have to teach me."

Crowing in triumph, John seated himself in the chair opposite Sherlock's and began dealing cards. "We'll start with Go Fish - that's dead easy. We'll work our way up to poker, I think."

It was hard not to catch some of John's excitement and soon Sherlock found himself staring intently at his cards, figuring out the best strategy to beat John at the game.

They played like that for hours until the sky outside grew dark. John stretched his arms and yawned.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"I am. But didn't want to impose...."

"We both have to eat." Sherlock rose and went to the fridge. "I took down a deer before the snow started and kept the meat for bait. Do you want it warmed?"

"Nah, raw's fine."

Sherlock brought John a small plate of meat chunks while he, himself, sipped at a glass of warmed blood. They ate in silence at first, until John attempted a conversation.

"How were you turned?" He asked, softly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I don't think I want to talk about that."

John nodded. "Fair enough. I was turned while I was in Afghanistan with my team. There's a bit more to it than that, but it doesn't really matter. My life was completely changed after I got bitten."

"How did you end up in West Virginia?" Sherlock couldn't help but indulge his curiosity.

"There was a pack here that I joined for a while. It ended badly, as well. I don't think I'm meant to be in a large group."

"And yet you wouldn't leave me alone?"

John grinned sheepishly. "I'm not that great at being by myself, either."

"I was turned during a case. I used to be a detective, in London." Sherlock suddenly volunteered the information.

John's eyes widened. "A detective! That's fantastic! So you were chasing after some bad guys and you were bitten?"

Sherlock nodded. "I, too, tried living among my own. It didn't work."

"So we're similar, the two of us." John had a smudge of red blood at his mouth from eating the venison and Sherlock fought the urge to wipe it away with his fingers.

"Perhaps...a little." Sherlock couldn't hold back the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Warm, stomach full, John's eyes dropped low and he struggled to remain awake.

"Come on." Sherlock said, rising. "Bed time."

"I said I'd sleep out here." John replied, the last word escaping in a yawn.

"That's not very hospitable of me." Sherlock grumbled. "My bed's big enough for the two of us and I don't sleep there every night, anyway. Come on... you stay on your side and I'll stay on mine."

Acquiescing because he was too tired to argue further, John got up and padded to the bedroom. Before Sherlock could protest, he'd stripped off the robe and climbed into bed, naked. Soft snores began almost immediately as John dropped off to sleep without a further word.

"Well, that's not exactly what I meant." Sherlock murmured, as he changed into silk pajama bottoms and got into bed on the opposite side. He held himself rigid at first before finally relaxing enough to drift to sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, John rolled over and draped an arm and a leg around Sherlock. Together they snuggled together and slept while the snow continued to fall softly outside.


	6. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stress of being snowed in gets to John and he takes it out on Sherlock.

_Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken._ \- Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, the snow tapered off. The sun rose over a cool, crisp blanket of white, unmarred but for a few animal tracks. John woke to find himself alone in bed, the blankets hopelessly tangled around his limbs. He stretched the kinks from his muscles and unwound the blankets before climbing out of bed and wandering into the bathroom, scratching idly at an itch and yawning. His hair stuck up in all directions and his face was rough with the bristly beginnings of a beard. Relieving his bladder and splashing his face with water, he draped the robe Sherlock had loaned him around his shoulders and left the bedroom.

Sherlock was just letting himself in from the backyard, having gone out to check if his hives had survived the night.

"Morning." John said around another yawn.

Sherlock looked up, his mouth twitching into a small smile. He took in John's disheveled appearance and wrinkled his nose. "We're going to have to find you some clothes."

"I'm not fitting into anything of yours." John pointed out.

"No, probably not." Sherlock said. "Maybe something got left in the unsorted boxes?"

Sherlock delved around in the storage closet once more, finally emerging with a small armload of clothes - well-worn jeans, plaid shirts fuzzy with age, and a pair of work boots that he gripped by the shoelaces.

"I think these will fit you." He said, depositing them on the kitchen table.

"Cheers!" John replied, poking through the pile. "At least I won't freeze to death if I have to go outside."

They both ate breakfast in companionable silence, Sherlock sipping at a mug of warm blood and paging through a book. John fried up some more of the venison and gulped it down, burning his tongue in the process and fanning his hand to cool his mouth.

Sherlock smirked. "Do you always carry on with so much noise?"

John contemplated the question for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably. No one's ever complained until now."

"I didn't say I was complaining." Sherlock returned to his book, pressing his lips together to hold in the smile that threatened to overtake his mouth. Something about John Watson left him feeling effervescent inside, as though a long forgotten well of happiness was bubbling up and threatening to escape.

"What's on the agenda today?" John asked, as he forked the last bits of meat into his mouth and then wiped his face with his hand.

"Mmm?" Sherlock cocked a questioning eyebrow at John.

"We've got to fill the time somehow. More games? Or maybe we should go outside and see if we can clear some snow away? I peeked earlier... it's not as bad as I thought it would be. It's still too much for me to get all the way down the mountain, but I can probably dig through some of it to hunt."

"Don't you ever just... relax?"

"Not really, no. I have a lot of energy and being still drives me crazy."

Sherlock sighed, dog-earing his book and closing the cover. "Okay. I suppose we _should_ clear away some of the snow."

After John dressed, the better part of the morning was spent shoveling paths through the snow until there were several cleared areas where John thought he might be able to hunt. They found a downed tree during their shoveling and John lugged it back to the cabin while Sherlock protested that he could help.

"Nah." John grunted, his muscles flexing as he hoisted the small tree over his shoulder. "I've got this. You have an axe somewhere?"

Sherlock pointed out the spot where he split his firewood, the axe embedded into a thick tree trunk on the ground.

"Perfect." John dropped the tree and stripped his flannel shirt off, leaving his chest bare and golden in the winter sunlight.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock spluttered, turning his face away.

John laughed. "Relax, it's just skin. I run hotter than you and I'm sweating. I'll work better if I can cool myself off before I split this into logs."

John set to work trimming the branches off the tree and bundling them for kindling. He then cut the tree into manageable chunks and set to splitting them into logs that would fit the fireplace. Sherlock took a seat in one of the rockers on the cabin's deck and watched him work, appreciating the muscles in his back that moved every time he swung the axe.

"I don't even need the firewood, really." Sherlock said, drawing his knees up and resting his chin on them.

"No, but the tree would have just been infested with termites or other vermin if we'd left it on the ground. And that's a bit of a waste, yeah? Now you're all stocked up on firewood and won't have to worry about it for a while."

"You like to work outside?"

"I do." John panted, splitting another log. "Even before I was turned, I liked being outside. That's partly why I joined the military. I like to be busy and I like to be under the sky with the ground beneath my feet. Don't you?"

"Not especially." Sherlock said, pulling a face. "I like quiet spaces - libraries, my home, anywhere I can hole up and feed myself information."

"But you go out and hunt?"

"Necessity. I don't particularly enjoy it."

"Ah, well... that's why we'd make a good team." John flashed Sherlock a smile and waggled his eyebrows at him.

Sherlock felt his face turn red once more and he looked away, silently chiding himself for letting John constantly catch him off guard. "I'm not much of a team player."

"Well, you're never too old to learn a few new tricks." John, finished with the log-splitting, gathered the wood up in his arms. "Open the door for me? I'll take these to the back."

After the wood was neatly stacked, John pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it up, shooting Sherlock a sly smile as he did so. Then he nodded to the hives. "What do you do with the honey?"

"Mostly mix it with wine. It makes a suitable substitute when I don't have blood to drink. I don't have as much energy and require more sleep when I go that route, but it's good in emergencies."

Sherlock showed John the hives, letting him listen to the low hum of bees as they worked to keep the queen warm.

"They'll survive the winter?" John asked, his ear close to the hive.

Sherlock nodded. "Hopefully, if I care for them properly. They can eat up to thirty pounds of honey keeping the queen warm and alive. I left them plenty to feed on until spring."

"Fascinating." John whispered, running his fingers along the outside edge of one of the hives. "I'd love to see it in the spring, when they're busy working."

"Perhaps I can show you." Sherlock felt relaxed now, with a familiar topic to keep the conversation going.

They retreated inside the cabin, noting the clouds darkening as the afternoon stretched on. John rolled his shoulders and grimaced.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Sherlock asked, concerned.

"No, just stiff from splitting the logs."

Sherlock was sitting in his chair in the living room and John was back in front of the fire he'd just rekindled. Pausing for a moment to weigh his options, Sherlock unfolded his legs and leaned forward.

"Come here." He said, indicating the space on the floor in front of his chair.

"Pardon?" John tilted his head, confused.

"Just come here, sit on the floor by my chair."

Narrowing his eyes, John nonetheless scooted to the spot Sherlock was pointing and sat with his back facing him. Tentatively, Sherlock reached out his hands and skimmed John's shoulders with his fingertips. Finding no rebuke from John, he pressed further, kneading John's muscles and easing the knots of tension beneath the skin.

"That feels good." John whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his head forward to give Sherlock better access.

Continuing to massage John's shoulders, Sherlock inhaled his canine, musky scent - now so familiar to him. He felt his skin flush and his heartbeat quicken in his chest. The reactions were feelings he hadn't felt for a very long time - not since Victor - and he savored the long-forgotten sensations that now assaulted him. Finally, he withdrew his hands from John's shoulders and took a few breaths to calm his racing heart. He felt a little dizzy, not used to such a fast heartbeat.

John offered him a smile of gratitude. "Shall I do you, now?"

"Oh... er... no, that's okay." Flustered, Sherlock couldn't figure out what to do with his hands now that they weren't on John's shoulders.

"It's okay, nothing to be nervous about." John reassured him. "Come on, let me return the favor. Join me down here?"

Relenting, Sherlock slid to the floor and John indicated a spot near the fire for him to sit, cross-legged. Gently, John rubbed Sherlock's shoulders, working the tension from his muscles. Sherlock sighed, his eyes going distant. All he could concentrate on was John's strong hands working at muscle.

"Do you..." John began hesitantly, stopped, then started again. "...do you feel the heat?" He nodded to the fireplace with its merrily burning flames.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice had gone low and honeyed as John worked on his shoulders. "I enjoy the heat, actually. I have quite a hard time keeping warm."

"So you obviously feel the cold, then?"

"I do." Sherlock said. "I get cold easily; while it's a sensation I'm used to, I must admit it makes my bones ache."

John nodded. "I run hot, myself, and don't get cold very easily. But I enjoy feeling warm, so that's why I like the fire. Do you feel pain as easily as a normal human being?"

"No. I do feel pain, but it takes a lot more effort to hurt or injure me."

"Same." John said. He finished the massage and settled back on his knees close to Sherlock, their skin almost touching. Sherlock moved to get up and John laid a hand on his thigh. "No, stay here?"

Sherlock sat back down, once again feeling nervous energy building in his stomach.

John's hand remained on Sherlock's thigh, rubbing in a circular motion. "Do you feel love?" He looked at Sherlock through his long lashes, a blush coloring his cheeks.

Sherlock swallowed and felt all words flee his mind. He cleared his throat. "Ah..."

"I'm sorry, I've made you uncomfortable." John took his hand back and folded it in his lap.

"No, it's... okay. Really." Sherlock tried a shaky smile. "I do have the capability to fall in love. I did fall in love - or thought I did - when I was in a coven in London. Unfortunately, it didn't end well and I had to leave."

"I'm sorry." John whispered again, his eyes full of sympathy.

"It was a long time ago." Sherlock said, looking down at his hands.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, still."

"No, it doesn't." Sherlock felt unshed tears burn at the corner of his eyes.

John scooted closer, his knees knocking into Sherlock's legs. He took one of Sherlock's hands in his and rubbed his thumb over the palm. "Sherlock," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Do you... do you feel lust?"

John raised Sherlock's hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over the palm. Sherlock sucked in a breath, his eyes dilating. John caught his gaze with his own, the energy between them crackling.

Feeling a stirring at his middle, Sherlock nodded slowly, too overcome to respond verbally.

John leaned forward and captured Sherlock's mouth with his. Sherlock parted his lips and John's tongue darted in as he kissed harder. Sherlock's hands found John's waist and he gripped it to keep himself steady as he met the kiss eagerly. Just as quickly as it began, it was over. Sherlock broke away first, his eyes burning hot and his throat fluttering with the beginnings of bloodlust. John moved away, wiping his mouth.

"S-sorry." John panted. "I didn't plan that."

Closing his eyes and waiting for the desire to feed to go away, Sherlock took a shuddering breath and nodded. "It's... okay. Boredom does funny things to a person."

John laughed and climbed to his feet, retreating to the chair opposite Sherlock's. Sherlock, too, rose and seated himself in his chair.

"It's started snowing again." John remarked, noting the darkened sky and the flakes it spat out at random intervals.

"You may be here 'til spring." Sherlock said, ruefully.

John met his gaze once more, his eyes flaring with desire. "I wouldn't mind that."

"You'd get bored."

"I can think of a few things to keep myself occupied."

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh. "Must you always say things to keep me off-kilter?"

"I kind of like you off-kilter." John murmured, leaning forward in the chair. "You're more likely to open up when you are."

"You're a persistent one, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.

John grinned wolfishly. "Like a dog with a bone."

Snorting with laughter, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Incorrigible, too." Sighing, he looked outside at the sun making its way slowly across the sky. "We still have an afternoon and evening to fill."

"Board games?" John suggested.

"I suppose." Sherlock said. "What are our options?"

Bounding into the closet, John came out clutching two game boxes. "Othello... or Risk?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll win either way." Sherlock teased.

"That sounds like a challenge." John grinned, tossing Othello aside and brandishing Risk.

He set up the game and they set to playing, their faces both set in concentration. An hour later, Sherlock occupied the bulk of the map and John was getting tetchy.

"I still think you're cheating." John grumbled as he played his turn.

"Sore loser?"

John glared, his eyes flashing amber for one brief moment.

"Maybe we should finish this later?" Sherlock suggested, a little nervous at the angry tension that filled the room.

"No, no." John snapped. "Finish it now and get it over with."

Licking his lips, Sherlock played his last turn, successfully attacking John's army and capturing the last country, thus winning the game.

Jumping to his feet, John paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock quietly cleaned up the game.

"I could have let you win." Sherlock murmured.

"No, it's okay." John shook his arms to rid himself of some tension. "I just get a lot of pent-up feelings when I'm cooped up inside so long. Look, I've got to get out and go for a run on those paths we cleared today. Get some of this frustration out."

Sherlock nodded. "That's probably for the best."

Stripping off his clothes, John changed into his wolf form and, with a brief snarl, loped out the door when Sherlock held it open for him. Feeling the relief as the anger cleared, Sherlock went onto the deck to peer into the darkness, his night vision picking out the details in stark relief. He could hear the heavy footfalls of John's running, smell his canine scent and the pent-up irritation that lessened as he ran through the paths in the snow. Shivering slightly, Sherlock descended the steps and stood on the ground, letting the cold air bite at his skin. He could feel John's heartbeat pounding closer as the wolf made the circuit of clearings and then turned to run back to the cabin.

When the wolf emerged from the forest, his fur dusted in snow, he lowered his head to fix Sherlock with a wholly animalistic glare and snarled, his lip curling up to reveal fangs.

"John?" Sherlock asked nervously. "It's just me... it's all right."

Raising his hackles and growling deeply, John launched his compact body at Sherlock, catching him in the shoulder as they tumbled and rolled together. Sherlock tensed his muscles and grabbed at the wolf, throwing him off to the side. Yelping as he hit the edge of the deck, John threw himself again at Sherlock, jaws snapping.

"I don't..." Sherlock panted, fending off the sharp teeth. "...want to hurt you! Come to your senses, John!"

They tussled for a few moments, Sherlock fighting to gain the upper hand. Curling his knee to his chest, he hooked his foot under John's stomach and kicked, robbing John of breath completely as he sent his wolf's body careening head over tail. Wheezing, John struggled to his paws and growled softly once more. Sherlock panted, sitting halfway up on the ground.

"Truce?" He whispered, watching John pace back and forth in front of him.

John turned his head away and then, with one last burst of speed, careened towards Sherlock. Sherlock pressed himself back and gathered his strength to do battle once more. As John launched himself aloft, the surrounding air shimmered and he landed, arms braced over Sherlock, a man once more. His naked chest heaved and curls of steam rose from his blazing skin. Only his eyes remained wolfish, flashing gold as he glared at Sherlock. John's thigh rested against Sherlock's hip and Sherlock was all too aware of John's cock, hard between his legs.

"John." Sherlock snapped, placing one firm hand on John's chest and pushing back. The man didn't budge and Sherlock felt the muscles tighten beneath his palm.

Long moments passed as John simply stared and huffed out angry breaths. He blinked a few times, his eyes returning to their deep blue color and, finally, the anger drained out of him and he scrambled back, kneeling in the dirt.

"I'm..." John shook with the loss of adrenaline. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean...."

Sherlock heaved himself backwards to sit on the steps of his deck. He swiped at a scratch on his cheek with his torn shirtsleeve. His clothes were ruined from the fight and he could feel bruises forming where he'd rolled over rocks. "It's fine."

"No, it's not." John spat. "I shouldn't have let myself get so lost."

"You said it yourself, being inside for so long frustrates you."

"It's not just that it's..." John trailed off.

"What?"

"I don't want to say."

Sherlock studied John, still in a state of arousal. "I think I have a right to know if it's about me."

John met Sherlock's eyes. "It's you."

"Me?"

"You...and all the things I want to do to you." John raked his eyes over Sherlock, licking his lips and making Sherlock feel as though he were on the menu.

"I thought you wanted to be friends?"

John laughed. "As did I. But there's something about you, Sherlock. Something... irresistible. You've gotten under my skin and I want you."

"I don't know how to respond to that."

"I know. I think that's why I got so angry tonight."

"Are you angry at _me_?"

A long pause, then John laughed bitterly. "No. Angry at myself, mainly. Angry at circumstances. Never angry at you."

Sherlock relaxed a little. "So here we are."

"Yes, here we are."

"I'm not ready for that sort of intimacy."

"I know."

"How could you?"

"You don't think I've come to know you, at least a little? Know the way you are?"

Sherlock nodded, his thoughts jumbled. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

"I know that, too."

"So what do you want to do about it?"

"Right now?" John laughed again. "I want to go inside and put my clothes back on. I want to eat dinner. I want to go to sleep."

"And us?"

John sighed and ruffled his hair with his hand. "How about we put it on hold until this snow's gone and things are back to normal? I swear, I'll keep myself in check."

"Okay." Sherlock said, feeling small and worried. "I'm sorry, John."

"Yeah, I am, too." John stood up and extended a hand to Sherlock, who hesitated before taking it. Helping him to his feet, John offered an apologetic smile. "Truce."

They both went inside and John went into the bedroom to dress and - presumably - take care of his state of arousal. Dinner was consumed in silence and, afterwards, John claimed he was tired.

"I don't think I'll need sleep tonight." Sherlock said. "The bed's all yours."

Nodding sadly, John padded to the bedroom. He paused at the door and turned. "Could you... _would_ you perhaps play your violin for me? Please?"

Sherlock smiled at him, accepting the request as the peace offering it was. "I can do that. Good night, John."

Sherlock pulled out his violin and played, the soft strains of music soothing John and sending him to sleep almost immediately. Just before he drifted off, Sherlock heard him murmur softly, "Good night, Sherlock."


	7. Regression (a Vignette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks back to his past with Victor's coven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the added tags as there are some new trigger warnings for this chapter. The description of all of this doesn't go into great detail, but if you are at all sensitive to that sort of plot, you may want to skip over or skim this chapter.

The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.

\- Kiran Desai, _The Inheritance of Loss_

 As the silence of the cabin settled around him, Sherlock brooded in his chair while he listened to the steady breaths of John in the bedroom. He steepled his hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes, casting his memory back to the last time he'd allowed himself to care for another.

_Earlier. Perhaps years, perhaps decades - Sherlock no longer remembers._

No one taught Sherlock how to be a vampire. His sire had disappeared as quickly as he'd entered Sherlock's life and turned it upside down. Left to his own devices, Sherlock floundered. The thirst overrode every other sense and Sherlock wandered the streets of London, trying to find something to satiate the ever-present, gnawing need.

Noel must have smelled him coming from a mile away. Sherlock stumbled into an alley to retch, his throat throbbing in pain. From the shadows emerged a man of medium height, with black hair, pale skin, and a lantern jaw. He leaned against the wall near Sherlock, who was bent in half and dry-heaving.

"How long you been this way?" The man asked, his accent marking him as being from South London.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles. "I... I don't know."

"You fed?"

"What?" Sherlock wrinkled his brow in confusion.

"Don't you know what you are, mate?"

Another round of dry-heaving followed; Sherlock's arms shook as he held himself up by bracing against the alley wall. Once his stomach stopped lurching, he shook his head.

"You're gonna kill yourself this way." The man pushed himself off the wall and extended a hand to Sherlock. "I'm Noel. I can help."

Noel had taken Sherlock to Victor's coven. They lived in a huge, industrial building that had long been abandoned. The empty building was crowded with people - other vampires, Sherlock later came to realize - who sprawled on mattresses on the floor, or leaned against the wall in corners. Bodies writhed in the shadows as some coven members indulged themselves. Noel presented Sherlock to Victor, a tall, slim man with neatly cropped, curly brown hair and a thin, patrician nose. Victor's eyes were what most found mesmerizing - the color of aged brandy and shining with a fervent light. Victor extended a hand to Sherlock, who could barely stand. He helped Sherlock onto the raised dais that held Victor's throne.

Tearing at his wrist with his fangs, Victor pressed the pulsing blood to Sherlock's mouth. "Drink, my child." His voice was soft and melodious, laced with a hypnotic quality that made people want to obey him.

Sherlock's first taste of blood was hot and coppery; his throat opened wide as he sucked desperately at Victor's wrist. Victor's other hand buried itself in Sherlock's curls, the long, thin fingers gripping tightly and pulling Sherlock's head back slightly.

"That's it. Don't be shy." Victor murmured.

Sherlock drank until he felt the thirst leave him. Victor dropped his wrist and pressed a firm kiss to Sherlock's bloodied lips. When he withdrew, his own lips were red and shining with the blood Sherlock had drunk. Pulling Sherlock closer, he moved quickly and sank his fangs into Sherlock's shoulder, eliciting a gasp from him. He drank briefly, Sherlock feeling dizzy at the pulling sensation at his shoulder. Withdrawing, Victor wiped the blood from his mouth and bared his fangs in an eager smile.

"Now you are mine. We are linked, young one."

Sherlock had shivered in delight at the time, something about the charismatic man drawing him closer.

That night, Victor held Sherlock down and took him from behind. It was Sherlock's first time with a man, his first time with anyone. Victor used his body for his own pleasure, and his alone. Afterwards, Sherlock was escorted away and placed in a cage in one of the inner rooms of the building.

From that day forward, Sherlock was Victor's pet. He was brought out of his cage only when Victor wanted something - to feed, to fuck, or simply to stroke Sherlock's hair as Sherlock sat at his feet on the dais. Several times a week, Sherlock and the others who were kept as pets by Victor's top officers, were taken out into the streets and taught to hunt, to feed. It was here where Sherlock learned that he did not care for the life of a vampire. He gained no pleasure from hunting down innocent humans and draining them of blood. But for his survival, and for his coven, he fed.

Victor's temper revealed itself less than a month after Sherlock came to him. Victor's mercurial temperament emerged in the form of violent outbursts that he took out on Sherlock. He would whip Sherlock for the slightest misdeed or invented disobedience. If Sherlock did not hunt as well as the others, or if he met Victor's eyes instead of casting down in deference, his back would be flayed until there were rivulets of blood dripping on the floor and Sherlock's voice was hoarse from screaming. Other times, Sherlock was made to stand on his tiptoes until his legs cramped and shook, while Victor gazed at him from his seat on his throne. If Sherlock stumbled, he would be held down and Victor would find creative ways to torture him, inside and out.

The abuse would give way eventually and, for several days after one of his moods, Victor would be apologetic and gentle, caring for Sherlock's wounds.

"I am the only one who knows how to take care of you." Victor would murmur, rubbing a soothing ointment into Sherlock's sounds. "Without me, you would be long dead."

He heard these words so often, Sherlock grew to believe that. He loved Victor with a blind devotion, counting himself blessed whenever Victor showed him attention. At every imagined misstep, Sherlock convinced himself that he was worthless and deserving of the punishment he received. He delighted at the nights of being used for Victor's pleasure.

Sherlock fell deeper into coven life, existing as only an animal to feed and be fed upon. He paid no attention to his own needs beyond his thirst. His eyes grew sensitive to the light as most of his time was spent in the dark, dank cage or under the midnight sky when they hunted.

He returned to reality the night some of Victor's officers brought three women into the coven. They were human, young, and terrified. Sherlock watched in horror as Victor and the coven tortured the women for hours, burning their skin with brands, cutting them with knives. The building echoed with their high-pitched screams as Victor drove them to madness. When he decided he was done playing, Victor beckoned Sherlock over and handed him a dagger.

"Slit that one's throat." He said, indicating one of the women. "And drink from her, my pet."

Sherlock wanted to refuse, but one look at Victor's face told him he couldn't. He approached the crying woman Victor had indicated and, remorse settling deep in his chest, he cut her throat. Thick blood bubbled over his hands as he buried his face in the torrent of blood, drinking deeply. When he was pulled from her body, Sherlock's own skin was covered in her blood. His nostrils flared at the metallic scent that filled the warehouse and his eyes rolled around in his head as he was overtaken with euphoria.

The bodies were discarded on the warehouse floor, laying there for days while the flesh decayed and filled the air with putrescence. Sherlock watched the corpses with hollow eyes, the guilt slicing into him like a sharp knife. In the back of his mind, a plan bloomed from the seed of doubt that had been planted. A plan of escape.

It took at least a month's planning on Sherlock's part. In that time, he continued to endure abuses against him on a nightly basis. But in that time, he gathered information and supplies. The night of his escape, the coven brought in several of the city's homeless, a veritable feast. Sherlock had gathered powerful sleeping pills during his hunts and squirreled them away. He pressed them on the homeless, insisting they were pills that would take away all pain. After feasting , Victor and the coven-members fell into a drugged sleep, allowing Sherlock to escape his bonds and leave. He wrapped himself in a discarded coat and ran, barefoot, as far as he could get from his coven.

Sherlock still didn't know how long he'd been with the coven. Time had blurred while he lived inside a cage. But now he lived for at least a week as one of the city's homeless, feeding on rats and hiding in the shadows, constantly afraid that one of the coven members would find him.

America seemed a logical choice - it would take him far enough that Victor would never find him. Sherlock snuck into the library and picked a spot at random using one of the atlases. That spot had been West Viriginia. He'd been able to steal clothing to wear on his trip. To get onto a plane to West Virginia, Sherlock had mesmerized the ticket agents - a talent that he was loath to use because it reminded him of how Victor had kept him mesmerized and brainwashed for far too long. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Sherlock talked his way onto a plane.

Sherlock arrived in West Virginia with only the clothes on his back and a backpack stuffed with money that he'd stolen from Victor's safes. Victor had used money to keep key figures in the city from probing too hard into the disappearing homeless population, or the occasional dead body dumped in the Thames or left in a dark alley. Sherlock hated to use the money, which was acquired through illegal deeds, but he knew that he would never get very far without being able to pay his own way.

Locating one of the most remote parts of the state, Sherlock had used the money to buy his cabin and set it up to his exact standards of comfort. As time went on, his nightmares about Victor lessened, though they never completely disappeared. Sherlock grew stronger and more confident in himself the longer he was away from the coven. He grew to love his solitary life in the mountains, away from the cacophony and - more importantly - far away from Victor's reach.

_Back to the Present_

Now, though, John Watson disturbed his calm with his raw sex appeal and his offer of friendship. Sherlock leaned his head back and tried to banish all thoughts of his past to a dark corner of his mind. He replaced those thoughts with thoughts of John; thoughts of his golden, muscled body and the way his limbs stretched as he changed from human to wolf; thoughts of his easy smile and sparkling eyes; thoughts of how his hair looked like spun gold in the sunlight; thoughts of his unique scent, part human, part wolf, and all John Watson. Sherlock felt an odd stirring at his groin, a sensation he hadn't felt in quite some time. Pressing a hand to his jeans, he rubbed roughly against the fabric, his hips gyrating as he tried to relief the pressure he was feeling. The release came quickly as he hadn't slept with anyone for a very long time and normally did not feel the need to indulge in self-pleasure. He bit his free hand to muffle his whimpers as he came in his jeans, his fangs digging into his skin and drawing drops of blood.

Spent, he sat back in his chair, his body feeling boneless. The hours ticked by slowly as the night limped its way to morning. Sherlock distracted himself with books and composing, but still his mind was filled with the image of John Watson in all his glory. He stole to the doorway of his bedroom and watched John sleep, chest rising steadily, a peaceful look on his face. Sherlock approached John's sleeping body and reached out a finger to brush back a stray lock of hair. As John mumbled in his sleep, Sherlock darted back to the living room, afraid of being caught.

 _This isn't Victor._ Sherlock reassured himself, trying to tamp down on the fear that filled him with anxiety. _You can trust John._

Overcome with the self-loathing of his past, Sherlock went out into his back yard, letting the cold winter air bite at his skin and soothe his worries. John Watson had sent his equilibrium off-kilter but as he stood under the clear sky shining bright with stars and let the frost nip at his exposed skin, Sherlock found he cared less and less about his equilibrium and more about the man inside his cabin who insisted he was a friend.


	8. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after their tiff, John and Sherlock clear the air and set boundaries.

By the next morning, the awkwardness had dulled. It showed only in the way Sherlock and John skirted around one another, avoiding even the briefest touch of skin to skin. Breakfast was consumed in silence as they both avoided eye contact. Afterwards, John silently collected the dishes and ran water over them in the sink. He returned to the table and rested his elbows on top.

John cleared his throat, then spoke. "So. We going to clear the air here?"

"It's fine, John. Water under the bridge." Sherlock recited, as though trying to convince himself along with John.

"Why don't I believe you, then?" John nudged his hand to Sherlock's and made to touch it, but Sherlock pulled his hand back. "See? It's not fine."

"I know you didn't mean anything." Sherlock felt an ugly well of emotions open up as the events of the day before mixed with his memories of the past. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

"You don't know that. I'm an animal, I could have killed you." John sat back in the kitchen chair and crossed his arms.

"I could have taken you." Sherlock sniffed. "Nothing would have happened."

"I'm glad you have such confidence in me... so why are you still afraid?"

Sherlock licked his lips and stayed quiet.

"Look." John sighed. "I admit, I came here with ulterior motives. I wanted a friend... perhaps I want something a little more. When I found you - or rather, when you found me - I was ecstatic to find someone like me. An outcast, someone different. I feel like we could understand each other if you'd just trust me. But I get it, if you want me to leave, I will."

"In case you've forgotten, you can't just leave." Sherlock pointed out.

John smiled sadly. "I lied."

"What?"

"There's a lot of snow out there, but I'd have no trouble leaving right now. I'm built to travel in these sorts of conditions. I lied because... well, because I wanted to stay here. With you."

Speechless, Sherlock gaped at John.

John squeezed one eye shut and arched his eyebrow to get Sherlock to laugh. "It was just a tiny, white lie?"

Sherlock tried to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "You're incorrigible."

"I've been called worse." John scooted his chair across the floor to get closer to Sherlock. "Please... I _will_ leave if you ask me to, but I'm really hoping you won't ask."

Sherlock cast John a sidelong look and got a heavy dose of sad, puppy-dog eyes. "Don't look at me like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about." John leaned sideways to get into Sherlock's direct line of sight, throwing in a pouting lip for good measure.

Sherlock blushed and ducked his head.

John carefully laid a hand on Sherlock's bicep, pausing to make sure he didn't jerk away from him. "What do you say, Sherlock?"

"I... don't want you to leave."

John sagged back in his chair in relief. "Thank you."

"Don't you have responsibilities elsewhere, though?"

"Nah. I posted a closed notice at my shop. I don't take a break often, so this was well-deserved. I'll have to go back at some point, but... I really _did_ want to make sure you were all right out here. Staying was just a perk."

"At least now I know we won't starve."

"Wouldn't have let that happen... I would have given up the ruse if things had grown desperate."

"I ought to be angry with you for deceiving me."

"Yeah, you should." John grinned. "But you aren't. Admit it, I'm not so bad to have around."

Sherlock's face grew somber. "No, you're not. I just find social interaction... difficult. I always have, but it grew worse after I was turned."

"Did something happen, then? To make it worse?"

Sherlock nodded, unsure whether he wanted to divulge his entire story. "I...fell in with a coven. The leader was... not good."

"What'd he do?" John's eyes were intense.

"You don't need to hear this story, John. It's best left in the past."

John's hand found Sherlock's under the table and squeezed it comfortingly. "Your past is part of you, just as your present and future are. If you don't want to tell me right now, it's okay. But I want to know you... all of you."

It was as if the floodgates opened in Sherlock's mind and he suddenly had permission to trust someone other than himself. He began to talk, haltingly at first, then the story flowed out of him. He told John of his time with the coven, of his time with Victor, of his escape.

"Even though I heal quickly, I still have physical scars on my back." Sherlock whispered. "Faint ones, but they remind me of what I left behind when I see them. So... I don't look at them."

John's nostrils flared and his eyes flashed dangerously. "Victor should be grateful he's across an ocean. If he weren't, I would hunt him down and tear his throat out."

Sherlock blanched at the violent words. "I prefer to leave it behind, undisturbed. Or at least as much as I can. He still comes to me sometimes... in my dreams. He and I are connected, you see. That sort of bond doesn't break, even when you're apart."

Swearing harshly, John stood up and walked across the kitchen, obviously trying to keep his temper at bay.

"So you understand why I am hesitant to trust?" Sherlock queried, casting a hopeful glance at John.

"Of course. I understand completely." John let the anger drain from his voice. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Sherlock. My actions last night must have reminded you of...." He broke off, the anguish becoming too much for him.

"No." Sherlock said firmly. "Nothing about you reminds me of Victor. Absolutely nothing, John. Last night was... it just was. No harm done."

John returned to the table, but didn't sit down. He nudged Sherlock's knees apart and stood between them, drawing Sherlock to him in a hug. Sherlock rested his head against John's chest and listened to the strong thrum of his heart. As John toyed with his hair, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and held on as if he were a man drowning in the ocean and John was his only way of staying afloat.

"Look at us." John croaked, his voice raw with emotion. "We're both a bit broken, you and I. Do you think that, just maybe, we could fix each other?"

Sherlock pulled back to meet his eyes, which flashed brilliant blue in the bright daylight that streamed in through the kitchen windows. "I'd like to try." Sherlock whispered. "If you'll be patient with me."

Laughing, John smoothed curls off Sherlock's forehead and bent to drop a kiss on his temple. "All the patience in the world, just for you."

"We make a ridiculous pair." Sherlock mused.

"Ah, who doesn't?" John reached behind him and took Sherlock's hands, tugging him to his feet. "C'mon. Let's go sit by the fire. Let me tell you _my_ story."

Later in the afternoon found Sherlock and John still by the fire. John sat on the floor at Sherlock's feet and relished Sherlock's long fingers playing with his hair. He'd just finished telling the story of his turning and of finding - then losing - his pack.

"You had no family?" Sherlock asked, sadly.

"Just my pack. No one from before that. Parents dead, sister... well, not dead, but effectively gone. What about you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "They believed me dead after I was turned. I allowed them to continue believing that. They're all long passed away by now."

"How old are you, exactly?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I don't really know, to be honest. So many years in the coven are lost... a blur. Too old, I imagine. Tired and old and worn out."

John leaned his head back and pulled a face. "Don't say that. You're still young enough to make happier memories. All that history... doesn't matter. What matters is you, here, now."

"You are unfailingly optimistic, John Watson. I confess I've never been prone to optimism."

"I can teach you." John offered a soft smile and rested his cheek against Sherlock's leg. "May I ask a question?"

"Seeing as we're laying ourselves bare, go for it."

"Why don't you burn? Out there, in the sunlight?" John nodded his head towards the window, lit with late afternoon light.

Sherlock laughed gently. "Ah, reading too many vampire novels, John. I'm afraid the myths about my kind are mired in untruths. While I am pale, the sunlight doesn't bother me. Well, unless I stay out too long and get a sunburn. Nor do I cower at sunlight or recoil at garlic. I don't have to be staked in the heart to die, though I _am_ difficult to hurt or kill because of my enhanced strength, speed, and reflexes."

"Where did all the mythology come from?"

"I assume my kind spread misinformation long ago, to hide the truth. It's easy to hide when covered with a blanket of lies."

John nodded and fell silent.

"Do you miss your pack?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John remained quiet for a few minutes, and then sighed. "I miss the idea of my pack, the idea of family. But no, I don't miss my pack, at least not as they were near the end. Things got all twisted when I had to marry. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was fond of Mary... as a friend. But there have been very few women I've been interested in that way. Mary wanted more - deserved more. And I would have been over the moon to have a child. The way that ended... it was wrong. For that reason, I don't miss being with my pack."

"So... where do we go from here?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah," John smiled and closed his eyes, joy smoothing out his features. "The fun part is ahead of us, Sherlock. We can go anywhere we want to go, as fast as we want to go."

Sherlock leaned over and pressed a kiss to John's forehead, which caused John's eyes to open and crinkle at the edges as his smile widened. He reached up and caressed Sherlock's cheek.

"Do you mind," Sherlock asked hesitantly. "If we take things slowly at first? I'm rather rusty at this whole relationship thing."

"Slowly is good." John said. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do, until you're ready."

"Thank you."

"For now, why don't you join me down here." John patted a patch of floor next to him. "And you can read me some of that book you've been reading?"

"I like the sound of that." Sherlock grabbed the novel he was halfway through and slid to the floor. They both scooted closer to the fire and John sat cross-legged while Sherlock rested his head in John's lap. While he read, John combed his fingers through Sherlock's curls. They passed the rest of the evening in that position; when it grew late enough, they both drifted into the bedroom and got ready for bed. Though Sherlock didn't necessarily feel the need to sleep, he wanted to be close to John that night. As he lay in bed, John nestled up against him, Sherlock reflected that he was happier than he'd been in a very long time.

Jeff Hope stared out the window of his ranch house and frowned at the snow that still covered the ground. Though it had begun to melt, there was still too much for him to go into the woods and continue setting his traps.

"Don't worry over what you can't change." James Moriarty strolled into the sitting room with a plate of raw meat. Taking a seat in a leather chair, he popped one of the chunks of meat into his mouth and chewed noisily. "The snow will melt and we'll continue with the plan."

"You sure that old friend of yours doesn't know you're here?" Jeff asked, broodingly.

"Quite sure, unless you've said something." Moriarty arched a brow.

"I've said nothing."

"Then we have nothing to worry about. As soon as he's been taken care of, you'll get your money, and I'll be out of your life."

"What exactly did he do to you, to make you want him dead?"

"Ah, that's best left unknown, don't you think? All that matters is the paycheck at the end. Should be enough to keep you for many years."

Jeff grunted and returned to looking out the window. How he wished the snow would melt and they could get back to work.


	9. Preludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking things slowly proves to be difficult for John and Sherlock.

The next handful of days were brilliantly sunny and unseasonably warm. The thick blanket of snow receded more each day, leaving behind patches of bare ground. Sherlock and John grew used to the soundtrack of dripping icicles during their days together. They spent the time getting to know more about each other, discussing the world in general and how they fit into it. Sherlock noticed John deliberately treating him with more gentleness than before, his movements careful and his mind obviously on Sherlock's past. They continued to sleep curled up against each other; some nights Sherlock lay awake and imagined waking John with a kiss, but then he reminded himself that they were going slowly.

A week after their conversation about the past, the snow nearly gone, John stared sullenly out the window and sighed.

"I've got to go." He grumbled, scrubbing his hand over the scruff he'd allowed to grow over his cheeks. "I don't want to, but I have to think of my business. Over a week is more than enough for a vacation."

Trying to hide his disappointment, Sherlock nodded. "Of course. You can't put your life on hold just for me."

"I _would_." John insisted.

"But you don't _need_ to." Sherlock pointed out. "Go home, do your work, then come and visit me. I would visit you, but...."

"It's okay," John came over and perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "I like being up here, anyway. And this way, I've got you all to myself."

Sherlock blushed, then sobered. "When will you leave?"

"Tomorrow, I think. One more night with you like this. I'm not sure I know how to sleep on my own anymore."

"I have an idea!" Sherlock rested his hand on John's knee and smiled up at him. "I want tonight to be special... let me plan an evening for us."

"What, like a date?"

Sherlock nodded, his face boyish and excited.

"That sounds fun." John grinned. "Can I help?"

"You can help by leaving me for the afternoon."

John pouted. "That's not really the kind of help I envisioned."

"You could go out and find some things to make this place romantic?"

John resumed grinning and nodded. "Okay, I'm up for that. When should I be back?"

"Right before sunset, I think." Sherlock accepted a brief kiss on the lips from John and then they both set to work.

John thought that, perhaps, it could have been considered cheating for him to have gone down the mountain to his house, but it was worth it. He brought back an iPod and portable speaker and a bouquet of flowers from the local grocery. The sky was streaked with purple as he set down the duffel he'd carried clutched in his teeth and transformed back to human. He took out the clean clothes he'd folded and placed at the bottom of the bag and quickly changed into them. 

Cracking open the door to the cabin, John called out, "Ready in there for me?"

"Yes!" Sherlock's voice drifted out from the kitchen.

John pushed open the door and discovered the cabin dark, lit only by dozens of candles placed around the living room. The fire was crackling in the fireplace and Sherlock had unearthed a second comfortable chair and set them facing each other in front of the fire. John quickly set up the portable speakers and iPod and selected a playlist he'd made of soft, romantic instrumental music; The first notes of a piano drifted through the room. He snagged the bouquet of flowers from his bag and wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock was just uncorking a bottle of wine when John flourished the flowers at him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Got a vase these can go in?" He asked.

"I think I might have a spare mason jar." Sherlock said ruefully.

"That works!"

John rummaged under the sink and produced a mason jar, which he then filled with water and plopped the flowers in, taking it back out into the living room and placing it on one of the side tables. Sherlock followed with two glasses of wine.

"Thought you might like a comfortable place to sit when you visited." Sherlock nodded to the chair. "That was up in the attic."

John sank into the chair and sighed. "This is nice. Thank you!"

Sherlock handed John the glass of wine. "It's honeyed... I hope you don't mind."

John sipped cautiously and then smiled. "That's delicious! I would have never guessed the combo would work."

Sherlock sat opposite John and toyed with the stem of his glass. "I thought about trying to fix something for dinner, but I'm afraid my cupboards are quite bare."

"It's okay. I ate while I was out so you wouldn't have to worry about it." John could feel the wine suffusing him with a pleasant warmth and he leaned back in his new-old chair.

They made small talk for a few moments more, each savoring their wine. John enjoyed watching the way the firelight played off of Sherlock's pale skin and dark hair, the dim light making his eyes seem much darker than normal. He lost himself in Sherlock's voice as they talked about nothing in particular. John finished his first glass of wine and Sherlock offered another, which he accepted without hesitation. He was nursing a pleasant buzz by this point and smiled lazily at Sherlock.

"This is nice." He purred. "This is the kind of date I can get used to."

Sherlock blushed. "Is it enough? I wanted tonight to be special, but... there's not much I can do. I don't eat, I don't really go off the mountain, it's too cold to go out for a hunt..."

He trailed off and looked at his hands. John sat up and leaned forward. "Hey, this is perfect! All I need to enjoy myself is you, Sherlock. Don't you know what you make me feel?"

Casting his eyes up through his lashes, Sherlock gave a small shake of his head. John licked his lips and raked his eyes over Sherlock from head to toe, drinking him in as easily as the wine. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, pressing it to his groin, where his cock had started to grow hard while looking at Sherlock.

"Feel what you do to me?" John rasped, his voice growing husky. "You drive me wild, Sherlock. You brilliant, amazing man... you're like a drug I want to consume."

Sherlock's eyes shone in the firelight as he looked at John hungrily. "John... I...."

"I know." John let go of Sherlock's hand and scooted back. "We're taking things slowly."

"No! That's not what I was going to say... I... I want you, John. Badly."

John felt his heart thump double-time and he let a slow smile spread over his face. He got up and went to Sherlock, straddling his lap and pressing his lips to Sherlock's lips, questing with his tongue to taste Sherlock, drink him down. They were all roaming hands and hot, wet kisses, their breath coming in gasps and moans. John grew hard and he slowly rutted against Sherlock's legs.

"John..." Sherlock gasped pulling away. "I can't...."

"Oh, God, no...." John moaned. "Please don't make me stop, not now."

He buried his face in the crook between Sherlock's neck and shoulder and ran his tongue over the skin, panting in frustration. John heard Sherlock suck in a breath and let it out with a wheeze.

"It's too much," Sherlock ground out between his teeth. "I want to feed on you, John. I don't think I can control myself."

That stilled John's writhing hips and he felt a dark curl of desire unwind in his belly. "Go ahead." He growled. "I don't mind."

"You don't know what you're saying." Sherlock's body was rigid.

"I do, Sherlock. Feed on me... I want you to."

Not able to hold himself back, Sherlock pulled John's body roughly against him and buried his fangs in John's neck. John let out a cry as he felt a sharp stab, then felt the pull of Sherlock sucking at his neck. Sherlock's fingers dug into his waist sharply as he fed. John closed his eyes, savoring the connection between them. He buried his hands in Sherlock's hair as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Tugging roughly at Sherlock's head, he tried to pull away.

"That's enough, Sherlock." He gasped. "You've got to stop."

Sherlock responded by trying to bury his face deeper and John dug his knee into Sherlock's chest and pushed hard at his shoulders.

"Stop!" John said firmly.

Sherlock's mouth was rimmed in blood and his eyes were completely black. He panted, blinking a few times, before the black receded and he came back to himself. "I'm... oh, God. I'm sorry, John. You shouldn't have let me...."

John relaxed, still straddling Sherlock's legs. Blood trickled from his neck, but he wasn't dizzy anymore. "It's fine. You did fine."

"I could have hurt you seriously." Sherlock looked wounded.

"You could have. But I didn't let you. You'll get better each time we're together."

"No...I can't do that to you ever again." Sherlock shook his head. His words were starting to slur.

"You can, and we will." John assured him, leaning over and kissing Sherlock's shoulder, moving his lips up in a trail to his neck.

"You taste so sweet." Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids drooping. "And your lips smell like honey...."

John laughed low and licked his tongue up Sherlock's neck and cheek. "You taste like I could eat you up."

Sherlock giggled and hiccupped. John drew back and looked at him critically. "Are you drunk?"

Another giggle and then Sherlock let out a small burp. "I am!" He crowed. "I'm drunk on you, John Watson."

Sherlock attempted to sit up and almost dumped John on the floor. John scrambled to his feet and laughed harder.

"Okay, big boy." John said, pulling Sherlock up and supporting his weight. "Time for bed."

"No!" Sherlock moaned. "We were going to... going to... what were we going to do?"

"We are going to put you to bed. Time to go sleepy-bye." John steered Sherlock towards the bedroom door.

"I wanted to make tonight special, though." Sherlock sounded sorrowful.

John patted his behind gently as they stumbled into the bedroom. "It was special, Sherlock. Promise."

He heaved Sherlock onto the bed, not bothering to take off his clothes.

"Ah, that feels good." Sherlock rolled onto his back and snuggled into the bed. "Are we going to have sex now?"

John burst out laughing. When he'd caught his breath, he gazed fondly down at Sherlock. "No, not tonight."

"Aw." Sherlock stuck out his lip in a pout.

"Another night. You close your eyes and sleep this off, okay?"

"M'kay." Sherlock turned on his side and pulled a blanket over himself. Within moments, his eyes were clothes and he was asleep.

"Well." John said ruefully, looking down at himself still fully hard. "That didn't go quite as planned."

Resigned to sexual frustration, John returned to the living room and doused the candles. Retreating to the bathroom, he turned on the shower to its coldest setting and climbed in.


	10. Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock fall into a new routine as the days go by, but change is on the horizon.

"Nnnggggghhh."

John lifted his arm, which had been thrown over his eyes while he slept beside Sherlock. He turned to find Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed and cradling his head.

"Morning." John said, the end of his greeting swallowed up by a yawn.

"Oh, God." Sherlock moaned, his eyes squeezed shut.

John chuckled softly and sat up, reaching out to rub comforting circles on Sherlock's back. "Feeling a bit under the weather?"

"I want to die."

John moved closer to Sherlock, leaning against his back and rubbing his morning scruff-covered face over his smooth skin. "Don't die, Sherlock. I've only just found you." He teased.

"What did we do last night?" Sherlock croaked. "I don't remember anything after... after...."

"Is that a blush I see?" John quipped.

He gently kissed Sherlock's neck while wrapping his arms around his waist. "I'm afraid the fun ended shortly after that. Between the alcohol in your bloodstream and the alcohol in mine, you were down for the count."

Sherlock moaned again, this time in embarrassment. "I'm sorry for ruining the evening."

"It wasn't ruined! It was perfect! Well, okay... it would have been perfect. But before you passed out, it came close."

Sherlock finally looked up and met John's eyes. "Really?"

"Any moment I spend with you is a worthwhile moment." John took Sherlock hands in his and kissed the fingertips. "Besides, you're hilarious when you're drunk."

Sherlock ducked his head, grinning. "My head feels like it's going to shatter if I move."

"I know. I'd offer to make my hangover cure, but it usually involves greasy fried eggs and hash browns."

Sherlock pulled a face. "No, that probably won't work for me."

"You'll just have to settle for this, then." John leaned over and kissed Sherlock, tasting stale wine and blood still on his lips.

Sherlock hungrily returned the kiss, crawling back into bed and pushing John against the pillows. John laughed in between kissing, pressing his hand against Sherlock's chest.

"I've got to get going." John whispered, breaking the kiss. "I wanted to get down the mountain and get everything prepared to re-open tomorrow."

Disappointed, Sherlock sat back on his knees and nodded.

"Hey, it's going to be okay." John reached out and tipped Sherlock's chin up until their eyes met. "I'm coming back, I promise."

Sherlock cast his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I know you've got your own life to live. I just... I didn't realize I was so lonely until you found me."

John's eyes softened. "I know the feeling. Look, we'll make it work. I've got to leave now, but I could come back in the evenings and spend them with you."

"You'd do that?"

"For purely selfish reasons, yes." John grinned. "I'd have to leave early to get back to town in time to open every morning, but luckily I happen to be built for running in this type of terrain."

"I'd like that... a lot." Sherlock replied shyly.

"Then it's settled. I'll bring some of my clothes and things with me tonight, if that's okay?"

Sherlock nodded. John climbed out of bed and stood in front of Sherlock in only his boxer briefs. Sherlock resisted the urge to peel them off him and continue where they'd left off the night before. Instead, he stood up, setting his head to jangling. After the pounding ache dulled, he smiled shakily at John.

"Tonight, then?"

John kissed him once more and nodded. "Tonight."

Sherlock walked John to the door, where he divested himself of his briefs and transformed into his wolf form. With one last look at Sherlock and a wag of his tail, he took off down the mountain and Sherlock was left alone. He gathered the underwear, as well as the other pieces of clothing that had been scattered around the cabin the night before. John had extinguished all the candles, so Sherlock collected them and placed them back where he'd found them. He proceeded to sweep the cabin, cleaning up their wine glasses, straightening clutter, and returning board games back to the closet, until finally the cabin was spotless and still.

Sherlock sighed at the long, empty day ahead of him. He decided he would take a shower to clear the rest of the cobwebs from his head, and then decide how to fill the rest of time before John returned to him.

A quick stop by his house to change clothes and shave accomplished, John was unlocking the door to his store when a voice behind him called a greeting.

"Mr. Watson!" Jeff Hope bustled up to him. "Good to see you! I was starting to wonder if your store would ever be open again!"

"Mr. Hope, good to see you again." John smiled and held the door open for Jeff to go in. He followed and rushed to turn the main lights on. "I'm afraid the storm caught me unawares while camping in the mountain and a friend of mine and myself were stuck for a little while."

"Oh, dear! Glad you made it back safely, then!"

"I'm just getting things opened now and I'm afraid I've run low on anything fresh, since we've been closed for so long. What can I do for you?"

"Something frozen would be fine. I need something to bait a few traps I've set out to eliminate some predators that keep going after my chickens."

John froze at the word "trap", but tried to play it casual. "Oh? That's a shame. Have you tried getting a guard dog?"

"Allergic, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Well, I should have something."

John went in the back and rummaged through his freezer until he found several packages of scrap meat he'd saved. He rang up the purchases quickly and sent Jeff Hope on his way. John stood at the door of his store, watching the man retreat, for several moments before returning to his work. By mid-afternoon, Jeff Hope had left his mind completely as he looked forward to the night to come. When end of day arrived, he locked up his store and headed home. He carried a medium-sized bag with him filled with several steaks and a container of pig's blood he'd frozen at one point with the thought that, perhaps, Sherlock wouldn't mind a break from hunting. Once home, John carefully packed a backpack of essentials - clothes, a few toiletries, and the food. He hefted the bag to make sure it wouldn't be too heavy to carry on his back as a wolf. Satisfied that he was well-prepared, he did a final check of his house, then slipped out into his backyard, naked but for the backpack strapped to his back. He transformed quickly so as not to be seen and started his trek up the mountain.

It was this way that John and Sherlock slipped into a new routine. John left every morning, just as the sky started to lighten. He returned in the evenings, where they filled their time with reading, playing games, and talking quietly. As the evenings grew warmer, they often went out on hunts together and Sherlock found a new appreciation for hunting that he'd never known before. As the signs of spring arrived, they busied themselves with spring cleaning. Sherlock began readying his beehives for spring and soon John enjoyed the sight of new honeybees coming and going from the hive, bringing back pouches of pollen loaded onto their back legs.

Though John found any excuse to kiss or touch Sherlock, they had yet to return to their interrupted evening. John felt the flush of arousal every time he looked at Sherlock, but the right moment hadn't arrived just yet. He was enjoying their slow courtship, the desperate longing between them. It would make their eventual coupling all the sweeter.

John didn't mind the lazy quietude of their new life together. He suggested they attend a spring concert in town, once, but dropped the matter when Sherlock's face took on a haunted look at the thought of being among so many people after being alone for so long. John, himself, was content with their time together and he believed Sherlock was, too. He saw it in the easy way Sherlock moved around him, in the way he unconsciously touched John whenever John was near him, and in the way his smiles came easier and more often. John felt he could live every day for the rest of his life just this way, beside Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, the love of his life.

It isn't the nature of things to remain the same, however. With the days growing hotter as summer approached, John noticed a change. The forest grew quieter, taking on an abandoned feeling that worried him. Their hunts became less fruitful. The summer heat was upon them unseasonably early, days stretching upon days of no rain and unrelenting sunshine. Grass and leaves crunched drily underfoot and the pond ran low as the summer marched unflaggingly on.

"Is it just the heat?" John asked one day as they returned from an unsuccessful hunt.

"It feels like more than that," Sherlock muttered. They were walking through one of the clearings now, nearing the cabin.

John stopped, cocking his head, looking at the base of one of the trees. "Look at that, Sherlock."

Beneath the dry grass was another trap like the one that John had stumbled on the previous fall. In the middle of the trap were chunks of scrap meat, attracting flies in the heat of the day.

Sherlock's face was grim. "This could explain a lot of things."

"I think I know who's doing it, too." John said, his mind returning to Jeff Hope's frequent visits to his butcher shop.

"What do we do?"

"We could call the authorities, like good citizens are supposed to." John pointed out.

"Or?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Or we could catch him in the act and put scare into him."

Sherlock smiled, steel glinting in his eyes. "The second choice."

"You sure? It could go poorly."

"I think we have enough surprises up our sleeves to turn it to our favor." Sherlock pointed out.

"Fair point. Well, then, we'd best leave this trap as is. I suggest we try to find more of the traps he's hidden around, too. Figure out the best way to catch him while he's setting up more."

They returned home, heads together, plotting out how to deal with this latest development.

"The traps aren't working." Moriarty snapped. "All you've done is strip half the forest of its wildlife."

"The fur pelts are bringing in a good price." Jeff pointed out. 

"I'm not interested in being a fur trader." Moriarty growled. "I'm interested in catching John Watson while he's at his most vulnerable."

"I still don't see what he could have done to make you so angry." Jeff said. "He seems a perfectly pleasant fellow. I'm not even sure I believe you about this whole werewolf business."

Moriarty's eyes flashed silver as he turned to Jeff, teeth bared. "Do I need to give you a little reminder of how entirely _real_ werewolves are?"

Jeff shrunk back. "No, no... sorry. I'm just getting tired of setting up all these traps.

"There's a simple solution, then." Moriarty drawled. "I'll start going out with you to set the traps. We'll catch John Watson out there, alone, one way or another. And I aim to be there when we do."


	11. Conflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's plan of apprehension goes terribly wrong.

The oppressive, unflagging heat continued well into summer months. The forest crackled with dryness, the soil longing for rain. Though ominous storm clouds would gather over Wolf Hollow and the mountains, only dry lightning and the muttering of thunder ever developed.

John and Sherlock spent a great deal of their time patrolling the forest, noting the location of traps, and keeping watch for who was setting them. John filled Sherlock in on his encounters with Jeff Hope, particularly the last time when his instincts told him something was off about the man.

They'd located at least ten traps set around the forest and frequently baited with meat scraps. John gritted his teeth every time he left one alone, but he knew they needed to catch Hope in the act.

"How long are we going to play this game?" John huffed one afternoon.

He lay stretched out on the sparse grass in Sherlock's backyard, while Sherlock worked with his bees. He'd been harvesting honey that afternoon and now gently brushed bees off the rails of the hive before closing it up. John stretched out a hand to one of the bees buzzing around and let it land gently on his hand, where it crawled around and then took off flying again.

"We could change our tactics." Sherlock observed.

"Eh?"

"The traps are most likely being set during the night, or at the very least, early in the morning." Sherlock pointed out. "We're patrolling in the afternoons and evenings."

"True." John mused. "I suppose I could shut the store down for a couple of days and we could do night patrols."

"I think it's our last hope to actually put a stop to this."

"You're right." John sighed, resigned. "Let's plan for tomorrow night, then?"

"It's high time we take care of the problem and put this all behind us." Sherlock stretched out on the ground beside John and took his hand. "So we can concentrate on what's important."

John smiled and softly kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I couldn't agree more."

Their night of patrolling proved fruitless. Sherlock, clad in all black, and John in wolf form, patrolled the outer perimeter of the forest, ears trained for any unusual noises. The night stretched to the wee hours, but it wasn't until the first rays of dawn shot over the mountain that Sherlock picked up the rustle of human footsteps somewhere in the forest. He froze, listening intently to the crunch of dry grass and the creak of a rusty spring as another trap was set. Moving swiftly, Sherlock ran through the trees, towards the sound. He slowed as he neared one of the clearings, catching a glimpse of a plaid shirt and the flash of metal as Jeff Hope placed the trap in some of the taller weeds.

Sherlock was tensed, his body seconds away from leaping upon Hope, when a cacophony of growls and snarls broke out to the left. He faltered, then changed his direction and darted towards the sound of fighting animals. 

At first Sherlock couldn't figure out what he was seeing. Then the tangle of fur and teeth and pure, animalistic rage sharpened into focus and he realized two wolves - one of them John - struggled together, each trying to get their wickedly sharp teeth on the other's throat. Sherlock made a move to leap into the fray, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"I wouldn't, if you want to stay alive." Jeff Hope hissed.

Sherlock glanced down to see a gun pointing at his stomach. He smirked. "What do you expect to do with that?"

"Stop you long enough to disappear, at the very least." Hope glared. "Why don't you back up slowly and get on your knees on the ground, hands over your head?"

Sherlock bared his fangs and hissed, but he could see Hope's finger twitch on the trigger of the gun. He sunk to his knees, lacing his fingers behind his head. Sherlock glanced at the tussling wolves and winced as the strange wolf managed to get a mouthful of John's skin in his mouth, dragging a yelp from John's throat.

"Let them duke it out." Jeff Hope spat. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

"To stop you, actually." Sherlock drawled. "I don't like it when someone comes into my forest with intent to harm."

Hope glared. "I wouldn't have kept setting the traps if your friend over there had shown himself sooner."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. "This is all about John? Why?"

The two wolves were now circling each other, vicious growls rumbling through twitching lips and bared teeth.

"You'll have to ask him." Hope said, nodding to the unknown wolf. "When he's done with your friend."

Sherlock snarled as the strange wolf, its silver fur glinting in the faint morning light, pinned John to the ground. John whimpered and cowered. Anger snapping, Sherlock launched himself towards the two wolves. He connected with a mass of fur and muscle as the gun went off behind him. Sherlock dimly heard a yelp, followed by more growling. He rolled across the ground with the silver wolf, his sharp fingers digging into its neck, trying to cut off its airway.

"Sherlock...!" John's voice distracted Sherlock. He'd transformed back to human form and now crouched on the ground. Blood flowed freely from a gunshot wound in his thigh. Jeff Hope stood nearby, training the gun towards John's head. Sherlock snarled again and bunched his legs under the silver wolf, kicking hard and pushing its body away from him. The wolf rolled, and then leapt easily to its feet. The air shimmered and slim, well-muscled man with dark hair and even darker eyes crouched on the ground, chest heaving.

"Good to see you again, Johnny-boy." Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock tried to go to John, but Jeff turned and trained the gun on him when he moved. Instead, he sunk back to his knees on the ground.

"What do you want, Moriarty." John panted, grimacing in pain.

"I want to see you suffer." Moriarty snapped. "Like you made me suffer all those months. Flaunting yourself around with my Mary... it's because of you that she's dead!"

"Not exactly how I remember it." John said, glaring.

"Shut up!" Yelled Moriarty, standing quickly and pacing closer to John. "You don't get a say in what happens this time. No daddy Magnussen to save your sorry hide."

John lifted his chin defiantly. "Go ahead and do what you came to do, then."

His eyes flicked to Sherlock's and they held a silent conversation. John flicked his eyes to Hope's gun, then back to Sherlock's. Sherlock twitched his head in agreement. He watched John's hands count down from three. At three, Sherlock pushed off the ground and launched himself at Hope, hands grabbing at the gun and trying to wrest control. Instead of going for Moriarty, John scrambled back to the weeds where the newly set trap lay. He grabbed the chain that trailed away from the trap and, judging his distance, used all his strength to fling the trap through the air. The metal jaws hit Moriarty's leg and clamped viciously into the skin. Moriarty howled in pain and collapsed, clawing at the trap now embedded deeply into his skin. Sherlock, gun now in his hand, kicked Hope away from him, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

The quiet of the early morning was now broken with Moriarty's grunts and whimpers as he rolled on the ground. Hope sat back, sullenly, his tiny eyes fixed on the gun trained directly at his face.

"Tables turned." Sherlock said. "Are you ready to talk?"

Moriarty snarled wordlessly, but Hope nodded.

"Good." Sherlock snapped. "Let's talk about how you're going to leave this forest and never set foot in it again."

Casting a nervous look to the writhing Moriarty, Hope nodded. "S-sure. Didn't really like this scheme, anyway."

"Bastard!" Moriarty choked out. "Treacherous bastard!"

Hope spat in the direction of Moriarty. "I'd rather make it out alive than carry on this fool plan of yours."

Sometime during their tussle, the sun had fully risen. Already the morning was warming to stifling temperatures. Sherlock could smell the rank sweat that dripped down Jeff Hope's back. He waved the gun in an indication for Hope to stand up. "You're going to walk out of the forest, now, and never look back. I will know if you return, you understand?"

John came up behind Sherlock, his mouth set in a grim line as he tugged on the spare set of clothing Sherlock had brought in his pack. The two stood and glared at Jeff Hope as the man fumbled to find a response.

Because both their gazes were trained on Hope, they didn't notice that Moriarty had managed to pry apart the jaws of the trap and withdraw his leg. It bled copiously, but this didn't stop Moriarty from leaping towards Jeff Hope, colliding with his body and propelling him out of the path of the gun. Moriarty fumbled for something in Hope's pocket and emerged holding a lighter.

"You want your precious forest back?" Moriarty taunted, staring at the gun Sherlock pointed at him and laughing. "You can all die here, for all I care."

He flicked the lighter with his thumb and sent it soaring over Sherlock and John's heads, hitting the ground with a shower of sparks.

Sometimes the universe lines up so perfectly, every domino set straight and flush, that it only takes one, small topple to send the entire row of dominoes falling down in a line. The spark and flame of the lighter, as well as where it hit, were just one of these perfect conditions that resulted in flames instantly licking across the dry ground, consuming grass and weeds as it grew to a small blaze before Sherlock and John had time to react.

Moriarty laughed darkly and, with one swift movement, snapped Jeff Hope's neck with a twist of his hands. He threw the limp body at his feet and limped closer to John and Sherlock, backing them up to the flames that were growing quickly behind them.

A growl rumbled in John's chest and his eyes flashed gold. Sherlock laid a hand on his arm. "No... we're outmatched, John."

"Oh, what's the matter?" Moriarty popped his eyes wide. "Big, scary vampire scared of me?"

"Get. Out." Sherlock ground out between his teeth.

"No, I don't think that's an option."

Moriarty lunged and grabbed at the gun. His movement surprised Sherlock so that he let go of the gun before he realized what was happening. John leapt on Moriarty's back, clawing at his skin and trying to get him away from Sherlock. The gun went off again and Sherlock grunted, a searing pain flaring up at his side. He stumbled, then batted at Moriarty's hand and caught it just right to send the gun flying through the air, landing somewhere deep in the brush. Moriarty and John were grappling, both of their movements sloppy from loss of blood and exhaustion. Behind them, the fire grew scarily fast, Sherlock's nose filling with the smell of hot, burning brush and trees. He nervously eyed their escape routes and found them limited.

"John!" He cried. "We have to get out of here! If we don't, we're dead!"

John kneed Moriarty viciously in his leg wound, drawing a deep howl from the man, and shoved him face down into the dirt. Moriarty flipped over and tried to gouge John's eyes, but John moved out of the way. Hearing Sherlock's words, John stepped back, panting. His face was clawed and bloodied and he spat angrily on the ground.

"John...." Sherlock muttered desperately, watching flames lick closer. "Please."

"If you make it down the mountain, you'd better run and never look back." John wheezed. "If I ever see you again, I'll put a knife between your ribs and put you down like you should have been at birth."

Moriarty curled a lip at him, then darted his dark eyes to Sherlock. He stared knowingly for a moment, then rose painfully to his feet and turned to limp down the mountain. As his form disappeared through the trees, his voice echoed back to them. "See you again soon, Johnny-boy."

Sherlock reached out to grab John's arm before he could follow Moriarty. "John. Come on."

The flames were now burning on all sides and their options were limited. John watched desperately as the blaze grew larger around them.

"We've got to get down the mountain and get help."

"We won't make it." Sherlock's lips were set in a grim line. "Look."

John followed Sherlock's pointed finger to a line of flame that was licking down the mountain. It climbed up one of the trees and the dry bark and sap exploded into a fireball.

"What do we do?" John asked, desperately.

Sherlock judged the flames and pulled John towards a gap in the burning. Darting through, they both limped, bruised and - in John's case - bleeding, towards Sherlock's cabin.

"And exactly what are we going to do at your cabin?" John panted, trying not to inhale too much smoke.

"I don't know." Sherlock's voice took on a slight whine as his thoughts whirred for a solution.

They needn't have worried about what to do at the cabin, because the flames had gotten there first. Sherlock cried out as they crested the mountain to a cabin in flames. He sprinted towards the front door, but John grabbed hold of him and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock's heaving chest.

"No!" John yelled. "You can't go in there."

"The bees, John!" Tears spilled over Sherlock's cheeks and his voice was raw with emotion. "The queen will burn and they won't survive without their queen!"

"I won't lose you for a bunch of insects, Sherlock!"

The two men struggled, John holding Sherlock back as Sherlock tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

"They're all I have, John!"

"No, no, no...." John buried his face in Sherlock's hair and braced his body against Sherlock's wriggling. "You've got me, now. Please don't risk that, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled, John's words finally reaching him. With one last sob, he turned and buried his face in John's shoulder, his body wracked with shudders.

"We've got to move." John wheezed, the smoke in the air growing thicker and stinging his lungs. "Come on... let's get closer to the water."

He pulled on Sherlock's arm and they both hobbled towards the clearing with the lake. Behind them, the blaze grew, the roar of the flames becoming deafening.

On the other side of the lake, hidden in shadow, was a cave. John had noted its position when he'd gone swimming before, though he hadn't realized he would have need of it in this way.

"Can you swim?" John asked Sherlock, whose hollow eyes still stared unseeingly back at his blazing cabin.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "I-I think so."

"We should be safe across the lake." John said.

They both dove in with their clothes on. John's leg bled freely into the water as he swam. Despite their exhaustion, they reached the other side of the lake - and safety - relatively quickly. John crawled out of the water and helped Sherlock to stand. They limped into the cave, which was cool and dark, as well as being blessedly empty. Sherlock walked to the back of the shallow cave and slid down the wall to the ground. John did the same next to him.

"Are you hurt?" John asked, grateful for the night vision that came from being a werewolf. The cave's details stood out for him, even in the darkness.

"I... got shot." Sherlock lifted his wet shirt away from his side to expose a wound dripping blood. "I think it's just a graze, though."

"Mine went all the way through." John said. "It's bleeding and it hurts, but I don't think it did any major damage."

"What do we do?" Sherlock asked.

They could see the forest entirely ablaze outside the cave. Though the lake provided them with some safety, the rest of the forest was a powder keg that had exploded. Neither of them had ever seen a forest fire grow so quickly.

"We'll have to stay here until it dies down." John said. "We can bandage our wounds with some of our clothes.

Sherlock grimaced. "It may take days for this to stop burning."

"I know, but we've no choice." John peeled off his jeans and examined his own wound, pressing around it to make sure the bullet had exited. He pulled off his shirt, as well, so that he was standing in front of Sherlock wearing only a pair of underwear. He tore several long strips from his still-wet shirt and bound them around his wound.

"Dry would be better, but we'll have to make do." He said, securing the makeshift bandage. "Okay, now off with your shirt.

Sherlock obeyed wordlessly. His face looked drawn and thin, John noted. He knew that the loss of blood, the burst of adrenaline, and the trauma of losing his home was taking a toll on Sherlock and John worried that shock would begin to set in. He poked lightly at Sherlock's wound to assure himself that it was only a graze. Then he tore more of his shirt into strips and bound them around Sherlock's side.

"That should take care of it for now." John murmured, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. "You going to be okay?"

Sherlock melted into the hug, his body growing limp as they sat on the floor of the cave together. He let his tears flow again and John rocked back and forth, murmuring soft, wordless reassurances while stroking Sherlock's curls.

This was how they sat for a long time, the cool darkness of the cave keeping them safe. Outside, the world burned, and somewhere at the base of the mountain, a limping, naked man emerged and, glancing back up the mountain once, continued into Wolf Hollow.


	12. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John contemplate their mortality while stuck in a cave... and then they figure out a better way to pass the time.

The heat in the cave grew intense, causing their clothes to stick uncomfortably to their bodies. John spent his time checking the blaze outside, worried at how close it came, even with the lake separating them from the flames. Sherlock, remained huddled against the back of the cave, unusually silent, his eyes closed tightly. John paced back and forth, worried about the blaze and worried about Sherlock. He crossed over to Sherlock and gently laid a hand on his forehead; Sherlock's skin felt clammy and cold beneath John's hand.

"Sherlock?" He whispered tentatively. "You okay?"

Sherlock blinked open his eyes, but didn't look at John. "I'm cold."

"It's like an oven in here." John knelt to check Sherlock's bandages, dismayed to see blood had seeped through to the surface. "Why aren't you healing?"

"I need to feed... my body's too weak to heal itself quickly now." Sherlock said, shivering.

"Of course. I should have thought...." John stuck his wrist in Sherlock's face. "Go ahead."

Sherlock pulled back, looking offended. "N-no! Remember what happened last time? No, I won't."

"We were drunk last time. You need to feed and you're not going to find any other source for a while."

"You've lost blood, too." Sherlock pointed out.

"Yup, but I'm not the one not healing. Do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked as though he might protest, but then his instincts took over. Pressing John's wrist to his mouth, he sunk his fangs into the salty flesh and drank deeply. John hissed softly at the pinprick of teeth, but didn't pull away. He could practically see Sherlock pinking up as he drank. After a few moments, Sherlock pulled back, licking the last drops of blood from John's wrist.

"Better?" John asked, settling down beside Sherlock and smoothing his mussed curls back.

"Better." Sherlock pulled John closer and nuzzled affectionately at his neck. "But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're hurt, too."

"Not too badly. It'll heal pretty quickly, I think. If we manage to get out of this without being burnt alive."

"Don't joke about that!"

"Not a joke, really." John craned his neck enough so he could see the flames climbing high into the sky, pouring black, noxious smoke into the atmosphere. "We could very well die out here, Sherlock."

Sherlock fell into a brooding silence at that thought. He shifted and pulled John into his lap, his long legs circling around him. He stuck out his wrist, mimicking John's earlier move.

"I want you to feed on me." He commanded.

"What?!" John laughed. "Sherlock, have you gone crazy? I'm a werewolf, not a vampire."

"True, but sustenance would help you heal faster."

"Yes, and you've only just gained your energy back by drinking _my_ blood."

"You won't have to take much." Sherlock said. He brought his wrist to his mouth and slashed it open with his fangs. "Do this for me. Make me feel like I'm being useful."

John gave in and let Sherlock press his wrist to his mouth. He lapped at the blood flowing from the gash, tasting the tang of iron and the underlying sweetness of honey. Though he hadn't realized how exhausted he was, John felt a renewed sense of energy the more he drank. The wound at his shoulder stopped throbbing and the ache of exhaustion fled his limbs. Sherlock gently took his wrist away when it was clear John had improved. He licked at the cut, his saliva staunching the flow of blood.

"And now we are both improved." Sherlock pointed out.

"Still likely to die." John said.

Sherlock pulled a face. "Did anyone ever tell you your sense of humor is a bit maudlin?"

"Says the vampire who just wanted to be left alone."

"So this is how we'll pass the time, then? Making jokes about our imminent demise?"

John tipped his head back to look at Sherlock, reaching up and tracing his finger across his jawline. "I could think of a few things we could do instead."

It took a moment, but then awareness flooded into Sherlock's eyes. "Here? In a cave? With an out of control wildfire raging outside?"

"Well, if this is the last day of our lives, I'd kind of like to go out having satisfied the itch I've tried to scratch ever since I met you."

"That...." Sherlock seemed to search for the proper words. "Is incredibly crass."

John laughed appreciatively. "That I am."

Sherlock cocked his head and let his eyes roam over John's face and down his body. He shifted so he could cup John's chin, tilting his head slightly. He then pressed a tender kiss against John's lips, which John returned with much more fervor. John turned to kneel between Sherlock's legs as his lips quested desperately against Sherlock's. Their tongues tangled as John fisted hands in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock ghosted his fingers over John's arms and down his chest, lifting the edge of the torn t-shirt John wore and tracing the muscles of his abdomen. John groaned against Sherlock's mouth and broke away, panting. His eyes shone hot in the darkness of the cave.

"You shine like the moon." He whispered, his fingers going to the buttons of Sherlock's shirt and fumbling them open, exposing an expanse of milky, pale flesh. "Like a brilliant light, guiding me home."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as John's warm, rough hands pushed his shirt off his shoulders and caressed his skin. Sherlock rested his hands on John's waist, his thin fingers pressed just above his hipbones. "If I am the moon, you are my sun." He whispered. "You are heat and warmth and undeniable life."

John captured Sherlock's mouth again and pressed his body against Sherlock's, his erection hard and evident beneath the folds of his jeans. Sherlock's hands slipped under John's t-shirt again and his hands explored the plain of his back, rubbing circles as he met John's desperate kisses with his own. He licked and sucked John's lower lip, nipping it lightly with his teeth, but taking care not to draw blood. John panted in his face and Sherlock inhaled the scent of his breath, which reminded him slightly of puppy breath. He continued kissing along John's jawline, sucking and nibbling at the skin and drawing a hoarse whine from John's throat. John's fingers moved ceaselessly, as though to touch every part of Sherlock's skin would bind them together for eternity. He found the nubs of Sherlock's nipples and rubbed his thumb across them. Sherlock hissed and smiled against John's neck, biting the skin beneath his mouth and delighting in the way it made John jerk his hips.

"You're still wearing too many clothes." John panted, pressing his thumbs into the groove of Sherlock's ribcage.

"As are you." Whispered Sherlock, his hands moving to the edge of John's shirt and pushing it up and over his head.

John helped him maneuver over his injured shoulder and then tossed the shirt aside. His hands moved to the buttons on his jeans, but Sherlock stopped them.

"Let me." He whispered, his graceful fingers popping the button and pulling down the zipper.

Together, they pushed the fabric over John's hips, freeing his straining erection. John slipped the jeans off the rest of the way, kicking them in the same general direction as his shirt.

"Your turn." John said, chuckling softly, as his fingers went to the fastenings on Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock raised his hips to help make the divestment of his pants easier. Afterwards, John leaned back and drank in the vision of Sherlock's naked body before him. He was all sharp lines and smooth, pale skin. His cock was hard and flushed, jutting up eagerly from a thatch of black curls between his legs. John licked his lips and rubbed his hands over Sherlock's calves, feeling the muscles flex beneath his fingers. He traveled up to his thighs, replacing his fingers with his lips as he licked and kissed the delicate skin of Sherlock's inner thigh. He felt Sherlock's fingers twine in his hair and heard the rough gasp as he tongued a line of saliva up to the edge of the dark curls between his legs. John pressed his face into Sherlock's groin and inhaled the scent of him. His hands traveled to the globes of Sherlock's buttocks, fingers tightening over the flesh and pulling his body closer to his face. He licked the base of Sherlock's shaft, delighting in the moans and shudders Sherlock gave in response. His tongue traced a vein on the underside of Sherlock's cock all the way to the glans. John flattened his tongue and laved it across the head of Sherlock's cock.

"Jesus," Sherlock panted, his fingers tightening in John's hair. "John... I... I won't last long...."

In response, John suckled at the head, wrapping his lips around it and hollowing his cheeks. He hummed in his throat as he took more of Sherlock in his mouth, bathing the shaft with his tongue. Sherlock's hips thrust up and John bobbed his head over his cock. He moved on hand to palm Sherlock's balls, stretching and massaging them while he swallowed Sherlock's length.

"Fuck," Sherlock moaned. "I can't... John... I want to look at you...."

John pulled away from Sherlock's cock with a wet, sucking noise. He moved back up to press his lips against Sherlock's, who kissed back eagerly as their naked bodies pressed together. John's cock, painfully hard, rubbed against Sherlock's groin and tore a ragged groan from John's throat. Sherlock's hand slipped between them and his graceful fingers wrapped around John's cock and stroked the velvet length of him. His fingers slipped through the pre-cum leaking from the tip of John's erection and spread it down the shaft. John cried out against Sherlock's lips and thrust his hips into Sherlock's hand.

"Wait... wait...." John panted, pressing his face into Sherlock's neck, his lips against his ear as he tried to gain control over himself.

John reached between them and took Sherlock's cock, lining it up with his own and guiding Sherlock's fingers around both of them. He laid his hand over Sherlock's and together they stroked together, John's cock rubbing against the length of Sherlock's.

Sherlock reached back to brace himself against the wall of the cave as he raised his hips to thrust against John, his breath coming out in small whimpers. John's coarse pubic hair rubbed against Sherlock's cock, sending electric jolts of pleasure the entire length of him. John's hands went to Sherlock's waist, then lower, to steady his hips while they thrust against each other. Their skin grew slick with the fluid leaking from both their cocks and their grunts and moans echoed off of the cave walls.

John felt himself approaching the edge as he thrust faster. He looked down at Sherlock, whose every muscle tensed, his face a mask of pleasure and desperation. John deepened his thrusts, pressing his body close and rubbing against Sherlock harder.

"Come for me," He panted. "Sherlock... I want to look in your eyes while you come for me."

Sherlock arched his back, their chests pressing together as he opened his eyes and met John's. And then they were slipping, tipping over the precipice, crying out wordlessly together as they came. Long streams of come spurted from both of their cocks as the months of pent-up sexual frustration uncoiled in one long, shuddering orgasm shared between them. Their hips jutted together in tight, quick movements as every last drop of desire was wrung from them. John's arms shook as he lowered Sherlock back to the cave floor, his hands leaving behind faint fingerprints on Sherlock's pale skin. He let out a shaky laugh as he pressed a sloppy, sweaty kiss to Sherlock's temple. Sweat and semen covered their bodies, skin sticking together in an obscene way that sent renewed waves of desire washing over John.

Sherlock cupped his hand on the back of John's neck and pulled him to his lips for a kiss before he broke away and leaned his head back against the cave wall.

John climbed off of Sherlock's lap and sat against the wall beside him, his cock rapidly softening and his body soaked with the evidence of their lust.

"That was...." John half panted and half laughed.

"Amazing." Sherlock moaned, finishing his sentence.

"Yeah, something like that. If I die today, that's not a bad way to go."

"There you go, spoiling the mood again." Sherlock grumbled, sitting up straighter and wincing. "Also, I do not recommend fucking against hard rock walls in the future."

"We take what we can get." John said. He cocked his head as he listened closely. "Do you hear that?"

Sherlock stilled, trying to pick out sound apart from the fire raging outside. "Helicopters?"

John grinned. "Wildfire fighters."

He scrambled to his feet and went to the cave entrance, shielding his eyes against the shimmering heat of fire. "They're fighting the blaze out there. I can hear them."

Sherlock stood and joined John, wrapping his arms around his waist and slotting his chin in the space between John's shoulder and neck. Uncaring of their state of undress, they watched the fire burn and listened closely to the distant sounds of people battling against nature.

"We might make it out of this after all." Sherlock whispered, pressing a brief kiss to the spot just below John's ear.

"That's good." John turned and grinned at Sherlock. "Because I want more of you. So much more."


	13. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fire extinguished, John and Sherlock rejoin civilization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains brief descriptions of violence and gore. Proceed with caution if this is something that triggers you.

It took days for the firefighters to stop the blaze. Sherlock and John spent those days in the cave, inventing games and conversing to pass the time. As the flames died out, John was able to leave for brief periods to hunt in the areas that no longer burned. Though most animals were scarce, he managed to catch some birds that supplemented the fish they caught in the lake. When they slept, John stayed in his wolf form so that he would provide warmth and a soft surface for Sherlock to sleep. They swam in the lake to wash the grime and streaks of smoke from their skin and, later, washed their clothes and left them to dry in the sun.

They couldn't keep their hands off each other, either. Much of the time they spent together found their hands roaming over each other's bodies, lips following fingers to leave a trail of kisses across shoulders, over stomachs. John felt lush with satisfaction, his limbs loose and his skin glowing. Had the cave contained more modern amenities, he might even have wished they could stay forever. But he also felt relief when he woke one morning and found the forest silent of all human voices. The firefighters were gone and the blaze completely under control. He poked Sherlock awake and gave him the good news.

"Let's go, then." Sherlock scrambled up, reaching for his clothes. "I want to see the damage to my cabin."

"I'll be more comfortable if I go make sure the fire is fully out." John said. "You get dressed and wait for me here."

John quickly transformed into a wolf and padded out, swimming across the lake and taking off at a run to do a complete perimeter check of the forest. His nose itched with the smell of smoke and charred wood. His heart sank as he ran through the skeletal remains of the forest. The fire burned through over half of the trees and brush, leaving behind the blackened corpses of wood. John knew, deep down, they wouldn't find much where Sherlock's cabin used to stand.

He returned, satisfied that the wildfire was extinguished. His tongue lolled out as he re-entered the cave, pausing briefly to shake the last droplets of water from his coat.

"Is it safe?" Sherlock asked, standing up.

_All clear._ John thought.

It took both a moment to realize what had just happened. Sherlock's eyes widened and John stepped back, his ears flattening.

_What the.... can you hear me?_

"Yes...." Sherlock said, slowly, his eyes tracking John as he paced around the cave. "I can hear you clear as day in my mind."

_Well. That's new._ John chuffed and cocked his head at Sherlock. _Can I hear you? I mean, your thoughts?_

Sherlock closed his eyes and, after a few seconds, John felt a voice tickle into his brain. _I don't know, can you?_

John leapt in excitement and let out a sharp yip. _This is fantastic!_

Sherlock laughed. "Okay, yes, I'll agree. It's kind of amazing. But could you turn back? Please?"

The air shimmered and John stood up, grinning. He took the clothes Sherlock held out to him and dressed quickly. "So... what do you think brought that on?"

"I have a theory," Sherlock murmured, watching John dress.

"Well, spill it!"

"In my coven, vampires were always talking about binding themselves to another vampire. Bound vampires were bound for eternity. They could communicate with speaking, too"

"But I'm not a vampire."

"No, but you're a supernatural creature, just as I am. The binding of vampire to vampire involved both feeding upon each other."

Realization dawned in John's eyes. "Ooooh."

"Yes, exactly. I didn't think of it until just now. But it's the logical explanation."

John moved close to Sherlock and took his hands, twining his fingers with Sherlock's. "So we're bound together? Forever?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened and his voice grew husky as he looked into John's eyes. "Yes. The only thing that would break that connection is true death. Does that bother you?"

John lifted Sherlock's hands and brushed his lips across the knuckles. "On the contrary. It doesn't bother me at all."

Sherlock melted into John's embrace, meeting the kiss with his own fervent lips. Had he not been eager to see what remained of his cabin, he might have allowed John to go even further. Instead, he broke away and, with a final caress of John's face, nodded towards the cave entrance. "Please... can we go? Get this over with?"

John's mouth stretched into a grim line and he nodded. "The forest is decimated, Sherlock. I want you to prepare yourself for the worst."

The words landed with a thump in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock knew in his heart John was right, but he still couldn't let the flame of hope in his heart be completely put out until he saw it for himself. They left the cave and took the long way around the lake, following the tiny strip of land that had been too dangerously overtaken with flames to navigate before. Sherlock stayed silent as they walked through the ghostly trees. He reached out and ran a finger over the crumbling, black trunk of one of the burned trees. His hand came back dusted with charcoal and smelling of fire.

Sherlock barely realized they were standing in front of where his cabin used to be, until John nudged him. All that remained of his home was a huge patch of scorched earth and a few remains of the wooden frame. Sherlock lost all the breath in his lungs as he walked through the piles of ash. He found no trace of his beehives as they, too, had been consumed by the fire. He didn't even know he was crying until he felt the cold tracks of tears fall over his cheeks. John came up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his waist. His chin poked into Sherlock's back as he tried to comfort him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. We'll rebuild it. Just as good as the old one. Maybe even better. We'll make space for even more beehives. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

Sherlock began sobbing and he turned away from his ruined home, pulling away from John. He paced a few steps, shaking his arms as he tried to rid himself of the panic that threatened to overtake him. John watched, helplessly, unsure of what to do or say to make it better.

"I don't want it rebuilt." Sherlock snapped. "I don't know what I want, but I know I couldn't live here in this spot again and feel safe. That bastard's still out there, John. What if he decides to come back?"

"If he does, I'll rip his throat out." John growled.

"And he'll rip yours out in the process!" Sherlock sobbed, too far gone to see anything but worst-case scenarios.

John stopped Sherlock, taking hold of his arms and staring into his eyes. "Whatever happens, I will keep you safe. I promise."

"You can't promise something like that."

"Bollocks. Watch me." John pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips. "We'll protect each other. I have faith in us."

Slowly, John soothed back Sherlock's panic and dried his tears. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, regaining a modicum of calm.

"Okay. I'm okay." Sherlock insisted, gently removing John's hands from his arms offering a shaky smile. "I mean... I'm not. But I will be. I'm homeless, though."

"No, you aren't." John insisted. "You're going to come live with me."

"In town?" Sherlock asked, his face blanching.

"Look, I know you don't like the idea of living amongst people, but you'll be fine. I know you will. I've got a spare room, if you don't want to share my bed."

Sherlock made a squeak of protest and John held up a hand.

"Or you are welcome in my bed, _of course_. Now, I don't think many of my clothes will fit you, so we'll have to buy you a new wardrobe."

"Happily, I wasn't stupid enough to keep my money in the cabin." Sherlock said, bitterly. "Don't worry... I've had plenty of years to establish funds for anything I might want or need."

"Good, that's one less thing to worry about." John said. "Really, nothing has to change. I'll go to work, you can stay at my place. You'll make it your own in no time and you don't even have to leave the house if you don't want to."

"You're actually okay with this?"

"With you living with me? Of course. I'm ecstatic, if you want to know the truth. Not exactly pleased over the reasons it came about, but I think we can make the best of a bad situation, don't you?"

Sherlock contemplated John's question for a moment and then nodded. "What good deed did I do in my life that brought you to me, John Watson? Surely I don't deserve a man as good as you."

"Don't talk rubbish." John reached out and nudged Sherlock's chin with his hand. "I won't hear of it."

With nothing to do but leave the ruined cabin and forest behind, Sherlock allowed John to lead him down the mountain. They drew a few curious glances as they walked down the sidewalks, covered in dirt and smoke, but John met each stare with a look of defiance that soon had the residents of Wolf Hollow averting their eyes.

John found his spare key where he'd hidden it in a pot of dirt that used to hold marigolds. He opened the door and ushered Sherlock in. His house was small, so the tour took only a few minutes. Soon Sherlock was ensconced in John's shower, washing the grime from his body, and John was trying to find something in his closet that might fit Sherlock. After picking out something that looked like it would work, John joined Sherlock in the shower and luxuriated under the warm blast of water, letting it soothe the aches from his muscles.

Showered, dried, and dressed, Sherlock smiled sleepily at John. "What now?"

"Food. Proper food." John said. "I don't think I have anything in my fridge, but I've got some things at the store."

"I'll come with you."

"It's not necessary, it'll only take me a few minutes."

"I know, but I'd like to go with you, if you don't mind." Sherlock felt the prickle of panic returning if he thought about being separated from John for longer than a few minutes.

John sensed Sherlock's emotions and nodded. "Of course you can come. Let's go."

Now they were clean and dressed in clothing that hadn't faced the elements for days, they no longer drew stares of passers-by. John led the way to his store and used the spare key he'd grabbed on their way out to unlock the front door.

The smell of blood hit him full in the face and John held up his arm to block Sherlock from going in. "No! Something's not right. Stay back!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he, too, smelled blood. "I'm not letting you go in there alone."

John edged inside, fumbling for the light switch. Finding it, he flicked the switch and the overhead lights sprang to life.

The body of Jeff Hope hung suspended like one of John's animal carcasses. It had been flayed open and his organs lay in a neat pile on the floor. A gruesome smile had been cut into his face and blood covered every surface. John stumbled back, feeling bile rise in his throat. Sherlock's pupils shrunk to pinpricks as he held himself still, trying to control his urge to feed. John grabbed his arm and Sherlock turned his head toward him, snarling. Then he seemed to come back to himself, blinking a few times until his eyes looked normal again. He took short, shallow breaths through his mouth and his hand fumbled for John's.

"Look." Sherlock breathed, nodding towards the body. "John, look at his neck."

John spotted what Sherlock referred to immediately. The clear marks of a deep vampire bite stood out on Jeff Hope's neck, still oozing blood.

"I think we should get out of here." John stuttered nervously. "We need to figure out what to do."

Sherlock nodded, but the decision came too late. Before either of them could turn to leave, a voice interrupted them and sent chills down Sherlock's spine.

"Hands above your head." The police officer who entered the store had a gun drawn. He took in the horrific tableau before him, his eyes going wide with shock. "Turn around slowly and don't make any sudden moves. You're both under arrest."


	14. Trajectory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attempt to get themselves out of trouble; a new plan is hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly-longer-than-usual time between updates. Busy season is upon me with summer approaching and I've been too exhausted to write in the evenings. Rest assured, though, I wouldn't ever abandon one of my works without finishing :)

In that split second of time, between confrontation and what to do next, Sherlock and John met each other's eyes and silently agreed that the time for concealment had come to an end. Acting as one, they turned. John transformed into his wolf form, ripping at his clothes with his teeth so he could escape easily. Sherlock, meanwhile, moved at the preternatural speed his gift afforded him. Before the police officer knew what happened, Sherlock snatched the gun from his hands and swept his feet out from under him. The officer cried out as he fell to the floor, but his cries fell on an empty room as Sherlock and John fled from the scene.

They ran with no destination in mind at first. Sherlock could only sprint at top speed for so long, so they concentrated on getting away from Wolf Hollow and someplace safe. While they traveled, they used their new connection to make sense of what had just happened.

 _Moriarty?_ John's question came to Sherlock's mind, laced with panic and fear.

 _No._ Sherlock's thoughts felt clipped with stress and shock. _Those marks were from one of my kind._

_Who, then?_

_I don't know. I've never encountered a coven in this area._

_You're not telling me something._ John accused. _We have to trust each other._

_Let's find somewhere safe and I'll tell you everything I believe._

They ran in silence then, each one lost in thoughts of what to do next.

Sherlock hoped "Gus" at the local gas-and-go wouldn't miss the two uniforms he stole from an unattended clothesline. He stood nearby a large bush, keeping look-out, while John finished changing. The brush opened to a parking lot of a truck stop diner. They both limped across the pavement, exhausted, and into the diner. Aside from a few truck drivers, who looked just as tired as Sherlock and John felt, the diner was empty. They gratefully snagged a booth in a corner and John ordered food.

"Okay, are you going to tell me what you think is going on?" John asked between bites of a burger.

"I recognized the scent at that crime scene."

"What, because of the blood? Yeah, so did I. It smelled awful." John wrinkled his nose.

"No, not just the blood." Sherlock insisted. "Underneath that smell... I recognized...."

He stopped talking and looked out the window, blinking rapidly. John reached over to cover Sherlock's hand with his.

"Hey, what is it?"

"I recognized Victor." Sherlock said, his voice barely audible.

John swallowed, his appetite suddenly gone. "That's... not possible, is it?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I think your friend, Moriarty, did his research."

John recoiled, the full weight of Sherlock's implication coming to rest on his shoulders. "You think...?"

"It's the only logical explanation. Moriarty must have found me out, contacted my old coven. That body was left... for me. As a message."

John sat back and rubbed his face. "So what do we do?"

"Running is no longer an option. It's apparently I can disappear for only so long before they track me down. And obviously Victor still believes I am his property." Sherlock's eyes took on a haunted look. "The only other option is confrontation."

"How do you suggest we find him?"

"Oh, I'm not suggesting we find him." Sherlock leaned forward. "I think we let him find us. It's time to go home, John. It's time to go back to London."

Though Sherlock had lived in the mountains for many years, he hadn't lost his ability - or his connections - to flee. They convinced one of the truck drivers to take them on his way to the nearest city. There, Sherlock looked up old connections who were still willing to help. He secured identification, money, a mobile, and a place to sleep for the night in quick succession. Seats were booked on the next flight to London in the morning. They rid themselves of the gas station uniforms in favor of street clothes. John felt in awe of seeing Sherlock under pressure; he transformed into an efficient machine only concerned with keeping them safe. John had tried to argue against returning to London, but he'd known Sherlock's reasoning was sound.

"What do you plan to do, once we're back in London?" John had asked, back at the diner.

"I haven't worked that out yet." Sherlock said. "But we have time to figure it out."

"Sherlock, are you sure? If Victor does anything to you, I'll... I'll.... I don't think I could survive that."

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "I'm through being scared of him, John. And I don't just plan to take him down. I want to destroy the entire coven."

John kept turning that sentence over in his mind since then, trying to come up with a feasible solution. For now, he let Sherlock take the lead and secure safe passage to London. Once there, they'd find a safe house to use as a base. After that? John could only guess what would follow.

"What about Moriarty?" He asked sometime in the middle of Sherlock's arrangements.

"I think he's become the least of our worries." Sherlock replied, ruefully. "Victor is the greater danger."

"He's still out there, though."

"Yes. And I have a feeling we might encounter him amongst the coven."

"You really think he'd join up with him?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock smiled a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I know Victor. I think Moriarty is probably his new pet. In fact, I think Moriarty probably wishes he'd gone with a different plan."

John felt a shiver go up his spine. "He deserves it."

"No one deserves that."

Sherlock fell silent after that and John didn't know what to say to make things better. They fell asleep in the same bed, backs pressed up against each other. John stayed awake long after Sherlock drifted into an uneasy slumber. He listened to the slow, deep breaths of his companion and searched his mind for a solution to their trouble that would keep them both safe.

***

Morning found them both bleary eyed and short-tempered. Sherlock spent the cab ride to the airport jiggling his knee and staring out the window. John felt a pressure growing in his chest as he tried in vain to think of a solution.

They barely spoke while boarding the plane; Sherlock seemed nervous and John realized he worried about the police finding them before they could board. They wore nondescript clothes and both wore caps to hide their features, but the danger of capture still lingered. After successfully boarding and finding their seats, Sherlock relaxed a fraction and John leaned close to talk softly to him. "I could get a gun. Just go in there and shoot them all."

"A gun won't work. They're too fast. You'd be taken down in seconds."

"Silver bullets?"

"You're mixing your myths again, that's werewolves." This, at least, brought a ghost of a smile to Sherlock's face.

John took Sherlock's hand and kissed it lightly. "I just want to keep you safe."

"I know you do. But I think I have to save myself this time."

"Not without my help, you won't." John cautioned. "I'm not letting you do this alone."

"I can't lose you," Sherlock pleaded. "I'd rather die than continue living without you."

"You think I don't feel the same?" John's voice hitched at the end. "We'll do this together. Or we'll keep running together. Or...."

"We'll die together." Sherlock finished.

"I would. Wouldn't you?"

Sherlock nodded, squeezing John's hand. "Fine. Let's start thinking of a plan, then."

"That's more like it."

They settled back, the long flight ahead of them, murmuring suggestions between each other. As they drew ever closer to returning to the city they'd left long ago, they plotted out their destiny.

Victor knew the moment Sherlock left the United States. He'd bonded with Sherlock, after all. His pet, his belonging... he would know if Sherlock was nearby. He'd been the only one of his precious things to escape him and Victor had been terribly angry when he did. Now, Victor thought, Sherlock had to be punished. Oh, how delicious that would be, to peel his skin from his body and hear his cries for mercy. Victor went hard just thinking about it. And that dog of Sherlock's... he would be delightful to torture. First he would be made to watch as Victor took Sherlock apart and left him bleeding on the floor. Then the dog would be torn from the inside out, his last glimpse that of his lover in eternal pain. Victor let a dark laugh bubble out of him. Yes, it would be satisfying to exact his revenge. But first he needed to return home, to the coven, to await Sherlock's arrival.


	15. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return to London for a final face-off with Victor and his coven.

Despite having been away for so long, London still felt like home to Sherlock. The moment his feet touched the pavement, he felt his world right itself. His cabin in West Virginia had been an ideal hiding place, but Sherlock found he no longer wanted to hide.

"Christ, this city stinks!" John came up behind Sherlock outside the airport. "I didn't miss that."

Sherlock lifted his head and inhaled. "How can you say that? I smell... energy and excitement and...."

"Car fumes!" John wrinkled his nose. He laughed at Sherlock's perplexed expression. "C'mon, let's get a cab. Where are we going, anyway?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead." Sherlock admitted.

"Ah. Well. Any ideas?"

"Just that we need to find a bolt-hole quickly. It won't be long until Victor alerts the entire coven to my arrival."

"You think he knows?"

"I think he knows everything that happens in this city. It's why I left."

John shoved his hands in his pocket and stared at the ground while Sherlock leaned against a the building, his eyes closed.

"Do you have any contacts in London?" John asked.

"None that I trust. They're all connected to the coven."

Their silence resumed. People milled around them, leaving to and arriving from parts unknown.

"I just remembered something." John blurted, raising his head. "Give me the mobile."

"What?" Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it to John.

John held up a finger and walked a few feet away while he punched a number into the phone. The hushed conversation lasted for twenty minutes, Sherlock growing more and more anxious the longer it took. By the time John returned to him, a smile lighting his face, Sherlock had begun pacing the length of the sidewalk.

"You're not the only one with contacts, you know." John boasted, handing the phone back to Sherlock. "Let's get a cab."

"Where are we going?"

"I'll tell you on the ride over."

Mike Stamford welcomed John and Sherlock to his small flat with open arms. He wrapped John in a boisterous hug and then offered a hand for Sherlock to shake. His nostrils flared slightly as Sherlock took it.

"I usually don't mingle with your kind." He said, cautiously. "I find vampires to be a bit brutal for my tastes. But if John Watson says you're to be trusted... I'd take his word on anything."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I'm glad I meet your approval."

Mike opened the door wider and ushered them inside. The next hour was getting them settled. After Mike stowed their things in his spare room, they sat down for a cup of tea and a long explanation - Sherlock and John alternating in telling the story - of why they'd returned to London.

Afterwards, Mike sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. "So what are you two planning to do?"

"I haven't thought about that, yet." Sherlock replied, ruefully. "I just know I cannot continue to live in fear."

Mike nodded. "Well, you've got my help, if you'd like it."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Really? But... why?"

"I told you, if John Watson says you're to be trusted, I believe him. I don't think he'd get himself wrapped up in a cause unless it was important. Like I said before, I find vampires vicious creatures. But perhaps that has less to do with your kind and more with who's leading them."

"All right, then." Sherlock accepted this answer and offered a grateful smile to Mike. "What do you bring to the table?"

Mike chuckled. "Not a lot, I'll admit. I'm fairly solitary and I'm not a good fighter. But I _am_ a scientist, so perhaps I can lend my expertise there to the fight."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "What are you thinking?"

"Well," Mike looked a bit startled to be taken seriously. "I've never studied vampires before. If you're willing, I could take a sample of your blood and perhaps some other samples, as well. Give me a day or so to study them and we may find an answer to your problem."

"It's a start, I guess." Sherlock said, rolling up his sleeves. "Take what you need, Mike."

Later that night, Sherlock and John lay curled together in the spare bedroom.

"Did we make the right choice?" John whispered into the dark.

"Mmmmm?" Sherlock rolled over to face John in bed.

"Coming back to the city, did we make the right choice?" John searched Sherlock's face for answers. "Or did we just put ourselves in more danger?"

Sherlock's hand stole up to cup the back of John's neck. "We've always been in danger. Now that I've found you, I want to stop running, don't you?"

John thought about answering, but he decided to kiss Sherlock instead and, by the time he finished, he'd forgotten what exactly he was worried about.

In the end, the decision was made for them. They could have continued debating the courses of action for days upon days, but they were interrupted by a raven.

A dead raven, to be precise. Left on the doorstep sometime in the middle of the night. A dagger pierced its heart and pinned a sheet of paper to its breast.

_Found you._

_V._

Sherlock found the raven. The smell of its blood mixed with the chillingly familiar scent of Victor drew him to the doorstep. He lifted the bird in his hand, feeling the slight weight of it, as he read the one-line note over and over, his lips silently forming the words.

John found him - and the raven - in the kitchen. He read the note while he leaned into Sherlock, carding his fingers through his curls.

"Bit unsanitary, having a dead bird on the table, isn't it?" John asked, trying to keep the tone of his voice light.

"You should go." Sherlock said, suddenly. "Go somewhere else, John. Anywhere else. Go back to America. Just get away from me and this. They don't want you, anyway. Victor wants me."

"I'm going to say this as kindly as I possibly can." John began. "Fuck off, Sherlock."

Sherlock met John's eyes, his expression slightly hurt.

"Don't look at me like that," snapped John. "If you think I'm just going to up and run away from you, after I've only just found you, then you deserved that."

"If he hurts you... or worse... I don't know if I can stand it." Sherlock said, clasping John's hand and pulling him closer.

"Listen to me." John said, firmly, putting his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and turning it up to look into his eyes. "I would rather die by your side than live without you. That's the truth. We've bonded, remember, and now you're stuck with me. For life."

Sherlock wordlessly pulled John to him, burying his face in his abdomen and wrapping his arms around John's waist. John stroked his hair and murmured soft words of comfort and, for that one moment, they simply existed. Together, as one.

The decision was made, under protest by both Sherlock and John, to go on a nighttime patrol.

"I won't have it!" John said, his face hot with anger. "You're not going out alone, against a coven of vampires who want you dead!"

"You're certainly not going with me," hissed Sherlock. "I know the coven, you don't. It's logical for me to go You're not coming with me."

"Then you're not going!" John's nostrils flared and he planted himself in front of Sherlock, refusing to let him slip by.

"John, we'll never succeed if we don't work together!" Sherlock's voice took on a whining note as he turned away, raking his hands through his hair. "I'm trying to keep us both alive!"

"And you think I'm not?" John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arms, pulling him back to face him. "Sherlock, we're in this together and we'll be stronger if we work that way."

"He's right, you know." Mike said from the front entrance. He'd arrived moments before without notice. "You've both got to be smart and use each of your assets to make any progress. I'm still analyzing those samples, but a patrol might give us some clues about where to go next."

Sherlock's lips compressed in a thin line and he stared at them both. Finally, he threw his hands up. "Fine! I see I've been outvoted."

It was agreed that Mike would only hold them back, so Sherlock and John headed into the night alone. Sherlock dressed in all black, John preferred to go in his wolf form. They'd agreed to stick to patrolling the streets under cover of shadows, looking for a hint of coven activity. No action would be taken, only information gathering.

They found they worked together smoothly, running swiftly in the night and communicating only through their shared mental connection.

_You smell that?_

_Yes, they've been here recently._

_The scent gets stronger down that side street, follow?_

_Right behind you._

It all went awry because Sherlock forgot how well the coven could track them. He forgot that they would know he traveled with a werewolf.

They were racing down a darkened street, following the scent of the coven, when a dark blur careened out of the night and hit John from the side, taking him down in a tangle of claws and teeth. A cacophony of growls and yelps ensued and Sherlock wheeled around to join the fray when he came face to face with the entire coven. No sign of Victor with them, but that wasn't unusual - he quite often sent his underlings to do his dirty business. The vampire that had taken down John had him strung up tightly so that he could only whimper and struggle.

 _Run, Sherlock!_ The frantic thought came to him in John's voice.

_Not without you. I won't leave you to them!_

_They're going to kill you if you stay! Run, go back to Mike!_

_No, I won't! We'll die together before I leave you alone, remember?_

But even as he said this, Sherlock felt the panic rising as the coven moved as one entity, growing closer, their fangs bared and their eyes mad with glee.

_Sherlock, I will kill you myself if you don't run... NOW!_

With a colossal effort, John managed to twist out of the tight rope binding him. He snapped at his bindings and then lunged at the nearest vampire, tearing out its jugular with a spray of blood. Like a rocket, he careened through the crowd and set the vampires on a merry chase. Sherlock took off after them, hearing John's panicked thoughts of escape in his mind. He didn't see the vampire straggler until she leapt upon him, eyes wild and hands curled into claws.

"Ooof!" Sherlock exhaled as she took him down. Her teeth grazed over his throat, but he kicked out and sent her tumbling.

Before he could regain his footing, she was back, clawing at his face and screeching maniacally. They struggled, rolling around the abandoned street. Sherlock felt something crunch beneath him and then there was a sharp stabbing at his side. He cried out; the air filled with the scent of blood that sent the female vampire into a frenzy. Reaching behind him, Sherlock pulled the shard of glass from his side, still dripping with blood. As the vampire launched herself once more towards him, he slashed out. The glass tore into her neck and Sherlock felt hot blood pulse over his hand. The light in her eyes died as she slumped to the ground.

Panting, Sherlock got up, holding his side as it bled profusely. The night was silent once more.

 _John?_ He cast his thoughts out, hoping to find a thread of the connection between them.

No answer returned. He had no idea where the coven had gone or if John had escaped, but he now was in no shape to pursue them. Sherlock pressed a hand to his side to staunch the flow of blood and limped slowly back in the direction of Mike's flat. As he walked, he held on to a thin hope that John would be waiting for him when he got there.

John hadn't returned. Sherlock felt he would go mad with worry as he let Mike clean and bandage his wound. Already it had started healing. He gratefully accepted some blood Mike had brought from his lab; once he fed, the healing would accelerate even more.

"I've got to go back out," Sherlock insisted. "I've got to find John."

"There's still a chance he found a hiding place." Mike said, although his voice betrayed his doubts. "And you can't go out until you're at full strength and until we have a plan."

Sherlock grimaced, knowing Mike was right. "So what do you suggest?"

"Actually," Mike's eyes twinkled as a smile crossed his face. "I think I've come up with a plan."

Sherlock listened in rapt attention as Mike detailed the plan he'd concocted. Afterwards, Sherlock returned his smile.

"I think you may have something there." He said. "We just need to find where Victor and the coven are staying."

"Shouldn't be too hard." Mike said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm guessing you'll hear from him soon. If he's got John, he'll use him to lure you there."

Sherlock frowned. "You're right... I don't like that you're right, though."

"John's been through a lot of tough situations, you know." Mike pointed out. "He knows you'll be hatching a plan."

"I hope so," Sherlock murmured. "In any case... you'll get started on the crucial parts?"

"I will. You just concentrate on healing that wound."

Getting everything ready took several days, all of which were spent by Sherlock worrying and pacing Mike's flat. Each day that passed without John returning, he thought of going out and hunting down Victor. And each time, Sherlock reminded himself of the plan. Stick to the plan. It's what John would have done.

Just as all the pieces fell together, Mike's instinct proved correct. This time the note came attached to a clump of golden fur that Sherlock instantly knew as John's. The note listed the address of a warehouse in one of the abandoned industrial districts, along with a message:

_Next time, I'll send something more solid than fur._

_V._

Sherlock pressed the fur to his nose and inhaled John's scent mixed with that of the coven. His eyes met Mike's. "Everything's ready?"

Mike swallowed, looking terrified. "As ready as it will ever be."

"Tonight, then." Sherlock said. "We go tonight."

Mike, sensing that Sherlock wouldn't accept any arguments, nodded. "I'll get all my equipment gathered, then."

The warehouse was bigger than the one Victor had been in when Sherlock joined the coven. Sherlock and Mike stood on the street, looking at its crumbling facade.

"You'll prepare things out here?" Sherlock asked. "You were able to get everything you needed from your contacts?"

Mike nodded his head and swallowed audibly. "I'll get it all set up. You've got everything?"

Sherlock nodded, uncapping a test tube Mike had given him and downing the contents. He tossed the empty tube aside and squared his shoulders. "Right, then. Off we go. Oh, and Mike?"

Mike looked up, catching Sherlock's eyes.

"If we don't make it out in an hour, do it anyway. It's been nice working with you." Sherlock lifted his hand in a small salute and turned back to the warehouse.

Mike watched until Sherlock disappeared through the entrance and then he went to work with his part of the plan.

At first, all Sherlock could hear was the drip of water and the skittering of claws against pavement. Then, as his senses adjusted, he heard the soft hissing of vampires, smelled the sharp tang of blood. He followed the smell to a large, open room lit by candlelight. As he emerged from the darkness, the faces of the coven members turned to leer at him. Sherlock's heart juddered in his chest as he took in the room. Victor sat on a black chair that rested on a raised platform. His thin fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of the chair. The coven surrounded him in their usual state of lazy indulgence. Beside Victor kneeled John, naked, his back criss-crossed with bloody stripes from a whip. His hands were bound tightly behind his back. Around his neck was a collar with a leash attached. Victor held the leash loosely in his free hand as a smile stretched wide across his face, his eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"I did hope you'd come." He drawled.

This caused John to jump and look up. His face was a mess of bruises, his eyelids nearly swollen shut. He moaned in fear when he saw Sherlock and Victor tugged sharply on the leash.

"Silence!" He snapped as John choked and coughed when the collar pressed against his throat.

Sherlock steeled himself, trying not to react. But still, his fists tightened and he felt rage boil up behind his eyes.

"Such a lovely pet this one makes." Cooed Victor. "I can see why you kept him."

"Let him go, Victor." Sherlock forced the words out, his throat threatening to close up in panic. "I'm the one you want, let John go."

"No, Sherlock!" John's voice was raspy as though his throat was sore. "Don't!"

"I. Said. Quiet!" Victor pulled out a riding crop and struck at John's shoulders with each word, causing John to flinch away and whine.

Sherlock wanted to launch himself at Victor and tear his fucking throat out. Instead, he stiffened his spine and walked towards Victor. "You don't want him. He's useless."

John's head jerked up again, but he said nothing. Victor leaned forward, hanging on Sherlock's every word.

"He's nothing to me. A convenient pet, as you say. But he's no match for you." Sherlock continued, wishing he could convey to John that these were all lies. "Take me, Victor. It's been so long... let him go and take me."

Victor narrowed his eyes. "If he's nothing to you, then it won't matter if I give him to the coven. They haven't fed properly for several nights and they're ravenous."

Sherlock flicked his eyes to John, whose shoulders were slumped in defeat. "Why not? He's no use to you."

_Please, John, please, oh please, they're lies, they're filthy lies._

Victor stood up, dropping John's leash and stepping off the platform. He went to Sherlock and walked around him, trailing a finger across Sherlock's face.

"Oh, I've missed you." Victor purred, his eyes traveling up and down Sherlock's body. "But you're a bad, bad boy. I'm going to have fun punishing you, Sherlock."

He closed his hands around Sherlock's neck, squeezing until Sherlock gasped in pain. A rumbling laugh bubbled out of Victor's throat and he pressed his nose to Sherlock's neck, licking a long line of saliva up its length. Sherlock shivered as he felt Victor's teeth graze his skin and then they pierced the flesh and Victor was feeding upon him. Sherlock met John's eyes again as John watched the feeding. A tear dripped down his battered face and Sherlock tried to send a signal to him with his eyes.

Victor pulled away from Sherlock's neck, his mouth smeared in blood, his eyes unfocused as he grinned drunkenly at Sherlock. "You taste different, lover. What have you been feeding on in those mountains?"

Sherlock reached out and pulled Victor close to him, pressing his face close as though he was about to kiss him. Victor blinked lazily at him and ran a hand seductively over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock pressed his mouth close to Victor's ear. His head was swimming and he felt his limbs growing numb. A burning pain had bloomed in his chest. His time grew short with every minute ticking by.

"I fed on your death." Sherlock whispered slowly. He reached beneath his shirt and drew out the small vial on a chain Mike had given him. With fumbling fingers he uncorked it and tipped it into his mouth, swallowing even though his throat felt like it was being consumed in fire.

The light of realization dawning in Victor's eyes was the sweetest sight Sherlock had ever seen. He threw the vial aside and pushed Victor away. Victor collapsed to the concrete floor; he clawed at his throat as the fast-acting poison that ran through Sherlock's veins worked its way to his extremities. The coven members stirred, realizing something was happening, but Sherlock was too concerned about getting to John. He left Victor writhing on the floor and went to John, whose head was bowed.

"John!" He whispered harshly, pulling a knife from a holster he'd hidden at his back. "I'm going to cut your hands free."

John jumped to find Sherlock so close. He turned his face to Sherlock. "Wh-what?"

"You didn't actually believe what I told him, did you?" Sherlock glanced back. The coven members swarmed Victor, trying to help him. "You think I'd want to go back to _him_?"

"Y-you..but...." John's voice was weak and his brain obviously muddled.

"Shush." Sherlock said. "We haven't the time. I'll explain it all later, when we're safe."

He worked the knife under the ropes binding John's hands. John rubbed at his wrists gratefully and let Sherlock help him to his feet. He cried out softly as he tried to take weight on his right ankle. "My ankle... I think it's sprained...."

Sherlock swore. The coven members were now keening over Victor's body, which was slowly melting into a smoking pile of puss and slime. They would notice Sherlock and John soon and Sherlock had hoped John would be able to help fend them off. "Okay, let me take part of your weight."

"No, I'm too heavy...." John whimpered, his voice still raw. "Go without me, escape while they're distracted."

"Remember what you told me earlier?" Sherlock hissed quietly, looping on arm around John. "Fuck off, John Watson."

John let out a wheezing laugh and that was what caught the attention of several of the coven members. Their heads snapped up, their eyes glittering with malice.

"Don't suppose you can transform?" Sherlock whispered, checking his watch and seeing that his hour was almost up.

"Too injured." John choked out. "Seriously, Sherlock... leave me."

"Not happening."

They were now surrounded by angry vampires, their hissing and growling growing louder. Sherlock's fingers tightened on the knife he'd used to free John. He tensed as the first vampire launched itself at him and his arm lashed out, catching the vampire in the throat and severing the jugular. Blood sprayed everywhere and the battle began.

Sherlock pressed forward, wielding the knife by instinct. His vision became awash in blood. At some point, coven member turned on coven member, which alleviated some of the pressure on Sherlock. John struggled to stay upright and in Sherlock's arms as they made their way slowly through the crowded warehouse. Sherlock slipped and slid in the blood that soaked the ground as he kicked a vampire away from John. The sounds of screeching and ripping flesh turned the warehouse into a house of horrors.

A tall, male vampire grabbed Sherlock by the legs; his throat had been cut and he bled out even as he tried to pulled Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock stumbled, almost losing his grip on John.

"Fuck!" John barked, stomping his foot on the back of the vampire's neck with a satisfying crunch of bone.

Sherlock disentangled himself and they kept moving. Slash, kick, move, repeat. The seconds continued to tick by as the warehouse exit seemed further and further away.

Sherlock and John were both drenched in foul-smelling blood and gore as they dragged towards the exit. The remaining coven members fought each other, their high-pitched screams becoming more and more enraged. Sherlock felt the cool blast of fresh air as he dragged John out. Then he felt the air contract as they reached the end of the hour he'd given Mike. He used the last of his strength to put on a burst of speed, half-running and half-leaping away from the warehouse as the charges of explosives Mike had spent the last hour placing around the warehouse detonated. Sherlock felt his clothes burn as the heat of the explosion hit him in the back and sent both his and John's bodies airborne. He landed several feet away, John landing on top of him, and he curled into a ball, shielding John's bare body from the massive explosion. Distantly, he heard Mike's voice calling to him, and then heard footsteps coming closer. He felt hands pulling him away from the warehouse, now completely in flames. When he tried to look up, his vision felt seared from the white-hot brilliance of the explosion.

"Sherlock, I've got you both!" Mike's voice was muffled.

"John...." Sherlock moaned, or at least he thought he did. That was the last thing he was aware of as unconsciousness stole over him.

The first thing he became aware of was that he could hear again. Sherlock heard the birds singing outside and heard someone - Mike? - moving around the kitchen downstairs. The memory of his night in the warehouse came back to him in fits and starts and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"John?" He sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness, his voice laced with panic.

"I'm here, love." John, next to him in bed, scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him. "You're safe. We're both safe."

"How long....?"

"You've been out several days. You took the brunt of the explosion." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's back, which still felt prickly with heat rash from the explosion. "Smart idea, by the way."

Sherlock twisted around to face John, whose swelling had gone down. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, now." John chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead. "Mike's taken good care of both of us and we've had time to heal a bit."

Sherlock finally allowed a sigh of relief to escape him. "It's over, then?"

"Thanks to you it is. You were brilliant!" John's eyes crinkled and then he grew more serious. "Although I should be very angry with you about poisoning yourself. What if you'd lost the antidote?"

"I'd rather die with you than live my life alone." Sherlock echoed John's words back to him and shrugged.

John laughed and then grimaced. "Don't make me laugh... I've still got some broken ribs healing."

"Are you really okay?" Sherlock asked, concerned.

"I'll be fine. Might have a few new scars, but that just gives me character." John winked at Sherlock. "The important part is... we're free, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned, feeling tears of happiness prick the back of his eyelids. "We are, aren't we?"

"What do you want to do next?" John asked, taking Sherlock's hand in his.

"You know," Sherlock said. "I've no idea!"

They both laughed, giddy with relief at having escaped the horrors of Victor's coven.

"Well," John said, snuggling closer to Sherlock. "I suppose we have time to decide."

"We do, indeed. We've got forever, in fact."

"Mmm, I like that." John said, sleepily.

Sherlock held John to him, letting the sound of John's deep breaths lull him back to sleep.

**  
**  
Three Months Later  


"Can I take off this blindfold?" Sherlock asked as John led him up a flight of stairs.

"In a minute, in a minute!" Laughed John.

"What've you done this time?" Sherlock asked, giggling.

"You don't really get the concept of a surprise, do you?"

Sherlock grinned and shut up, letting John lead him.

They'd spent the last three months healing from their scars - both physical and mental. When they'd been strong enough, they sat down with Mike and shared each side of their story. John recounted the torture he'd been through after he'd been captured. That torture still occasionally woke him at night with bad dreams, but Sherlock was always there to soothe them away. They lessened more and more as time passed and Sherlock knew they would soon leave John forever. He'd also relayed the fate of Moriarty: chained, caged, and starved. He'd died in the explosion just as the rest of the coven had. Sherlock then told of his and Mike's planning, of how Mike had used Sherlock's blood to find a fast-acting poison and then found a contact in his underground network of supernatural creatures to supply him with explosives. In the end, it had all worked beautifully, even if they were both left with a few new scars.

Sherlock and John had talked about going back to West Virginia, or of finding someplace new. In the end, they decided to remain in London. It was home and it finally felt like home again to John Watson, now that he had Sherlock by his side. Mike let them stay as long as they needed in his flat, but once they'd healed fully, they both knew they needed to find a place of their own. That led them to that very moment, with John leading Sherlock up a flight of stairs.

John's fingers fumbled at the blindfold, pulling it off with a flourish. "Ta-da!"

Sherlock turned around, taking in the small flat. It was decorated similar to Sherlock's cabin, with a pair of comfy chairs dominating the living room in front of a fireplace.

"Well?" John asked, grinning.

Sherlock went to the window and looked down on a bustling street - Baker Street - and then turned back, a wide grin on his face. "It's perfect!"

"You really think so?" John asked, blushing.

"It is, it really is!"

John smiled and then grabbed Sherlock's hand. "C'mon, I have something else to show you."

He led Sherlock out of the flat and up one more flight of stairs to a door marked "ROOF ACCESS". Opening it, he ushered Sherlock in front of him.

The roof had been transformed into a small garden with green, growing things and flowers blooming from raised beds and pots. In the middle of the roof was a beehive and Sherlock could hear a busy swarm working inside. He turned to John, his eyes filling with tears.

"You did this... for me?"

"A bit of the old home for our new home." John smiled gently. "Do you like it?"

Sherlock answered with a half-sob, half-laugh and threw his arms around John's neck, burying his face in John's jumper.

"I'll take that as a yes!" John laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of Sherlock's face."Here, love, I've got one more thing."

Sherlock pulled away, swiping at his tears. "What? This isn't enough?"

"I know you, Sherlock, and I know myself, as well. We get bored easily and I know we'll want something to do while we're in London. So I had this made as a sort of... proposal, if you will, of what we might occupy ourselves with here in the city."

John held out a rectangle-shaped package wrapped in brown paper. Sherlock took it from him, confused, and undid the twine holding the paper in place.

Inside was a carved wooden sign. The letters read "HOLMES & WATSON". In the corner above HOLMES was a bumblebee carved into the wood and in the corner below WATSON was a wolf. Underneath the two names, in smaller lettering, it read "PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS".

Sherlock looked up at John, his expression a mixture of hope and confusion. "Investigators? Us?"

"I think we'd do a good job, don't you? With our heightened senses and your brilliant mind? We could specialize in the weird cases and the supernatural. What do you say?"

Sherlock ran his fingers across the raised lettering on the sigh. "What do I say? I say it's fantastic!"

"Yeah?"

"It's perfect! Just the two of us, in London, raising bees and solving crimes?"

"Sounds like a good plan for the future to me." John smiled warmly and extended his hand to Sherlock. "But first... how about we go break in our new bed?"

Sherlock let a lazy grin spread across his face as he took John's hand. "Why, John Watson. Are you propositioning me?"

John dropped a quick kiss at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Every damn day for the rest of our lives, Sherlock Holmes."

Together, they went back downstairs to the flat at 221B Baker Street and began the first day of what would be a long, happy future together. The wolf and the vampire, two lost souls who - against all odds - grabbed hold of each other and didn't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is the end of _this_ part of the story, I hope that it won't be the end of these characters. My plan is, eventually (i.e. I'm not really sure when), to continue the story of Holmes  & Watson, supernatural investigators. So subscribe to my works and stay tuned for (possible) more adventures of the vampire and the werewolf.
> 
> Either way, I hope you all enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed playing with this particular world. If you did, please check out my other works to see if I've written anything else that might interest you! I always appreciate hearing from my readers and you can also find me [over on tumblr](http://cleverwholigan.tumblr.com), so please say "hi" if you feel inclined!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my fandom wife, best friend, and partner in crime, [TheGlitteryPotato/MrsDeGoey](http://theglitterypotato.tumblr.com), for the massive amounts of support and love she throws me. More than half the things I write are a product of our late night, smut-filled storyboarding sessions and I'm forever grateful for her presence in my life. <3 I lubs your entire face, squishy! <3


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